


Two Days After Never

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Annulment, Arranged Marriage, Arthur/Tyta is the best crack ship ever, Early Work, F/M, Fight me if you disagree, I know, Politics, i am really just continuing this for my crack ship, repost, yes - Freeform, yes i was actually that cringy if you can believe it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2018-12-06 12:17:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 51,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11600469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: Politics has players and pawns. Upon the treacherous board of the Westerosi court various pieces dance to a tune neither well-rounded, nor well-sung. With the understandable discordance at play, is it any wonder that some pieces lose themselves? Moved born of uncertainty swiftly give cause for regret as the power-struggle facing sovereign and nobles alike is as likely to end in a bloodbath as it is to resolve peaceably.AU!





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in an alternate universe. Some things are not canon compliant. Keep that in mind please.

280 AL

Lyanna Stark cried in the comfortable darkness of her room. They were determined to do this. They were truly going to wed her to Robert Baratheon. "Oh, gods," she cried in her pillow. "Anything but that." She had met him and she knew him to be quite affable at first glance. However if one probed deeper they would find the beginning of a nightmare. Like a ripe-looking fruit that fell into one's lap, Robert, stripped of appearances, left one with the image of crawling vermin. Her father meant well in securing the alliance with the Lord of Storm's End, but he cared, as most men, only for Robert's skill and the status of his family. His mind did not once turn to not the imbibing or to the bastards. He thought such matters of very little importance. After all, Maester Walys assured them all that a better match could not be found, or at the very least no other suitor who was willing to part with Silver Stags for her in such a quantity that was needful to her house.

Yet, mayhap, begging the gods for aid would yield a different answer. There had to be someone else, anyone else of sufficient rank to appease her lord father. Young she might be, but completely without thought in the matter she was not.

In somewhat of a daze, the young she-wolf crawled from under her covers and snuck outside her room. Barefoot she tiptoed across the halls and down the narrow staircase. The round moon lit her way as she left the torches behind. The snow was soft and cold beneath her feet, the sting of needles making her feel alive, likewise the wind blowing her hair about her face. She reached the entrance of the godswood with a prayer on her lips and dread burrowed deep in her heart. "I have come with a request." Her gods would protect her here, they would watch over her and perhaps even listen. "Pray, allow me to remain here." The carved face remained motionless insensible to her plea. "I beg of you," she half whispered, her feet carrying her closer to the edge of the small pond which had frozen. She was liable to catch a chill, but Lyanna did not care for such things. Better to die as a free woman than bound to the will of a man she did not trust or respect.

Her night of prayer brought comfort, the cold, dark sort that is too swiftly blown apart by the first rays of sun. Aye, for when the morning came, gold spilling over ink, then came her father also. Rickard Stark was not pleased to find his daughter where she was, curled under the red leaves. He marched her back to her rooms with a frown and a scold and then he added a rap to her knuckles. "She is not to leave her rooms, Nan. Not until Robert Baratheon comes for her."

"Then let me not leave these rooms forever," Lyanna said to the emptiness and to the stones and to the fire burning low in the hearth, crossing her arms over her chest once her father had left.

Alas, her fate had never been her own. She was to be passed from one man to another as they deemed fit, her voice ignored, her pleas left unheard. Not even the gods would help her, for the rule of man was on earth only to be guided. Lyanna came to learn that hers was a men's world, and men rarely paid attention to women if there was nothing to be gained of it. Few were those that felt for the hardships of women and fewer still those who would be impressed by them. Nay, Lyanna would have to make her own way using what wit she had and the fire which burned stead and strong in her chest. What mattered was the war, not mere a battle.

Robert Baratheon came a fortnight into her captivity and under the tree he swore himself to her under the vigilant eyes of a Septon and she replied in kind, but her words were faded, her heart far from them, drowned in it's sorrow. However she was given one kindness.

"What mean you that she is not flowered?" Robert boomed. "You promised me a bride. I have paid your price." Of course Robert would treat it as that. She was akin to horseflesh in his eyes as well, no doubt.

"Calm yourself, Lord Baratheon. She is yet three-and-ten. For certain she will be fully bloomed in a few months. It is a simple matter of keeping away from her bed until such." Maester Walys had been shrewd.

Bedding a woman unflowered was regarded as degenerated and crude, punishable in the eyes of Robert's gods. Lyanna did not grant them her faith, yet enjoyed the full benefit of her respite. She kept to her own, yet this turn of events suited her all too well. Robert's touch woke fright in her, it made her tremble in disgust to see his eyes on her when she danced with Benjen or Eddard. She had little pity in her heart for the man and was critical of him and his ways.

"He does love you, Lya," Eddard tried to persuade her. "Just allow him to and you shall be happy for it."

"Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature." And those words should not have come out of the mouth of a child. They were wise in the way of old women. Despite her love of frolic, Lyanna had learned long ago that life was no game. As for Robert's love, he could claim he felt it all he wanted, his actions told a different story.

She left her brother standing and joined her husband who by then was well in his cups.

And that was the wedding of Lyanna Stark to Robert of House Baratheon as it was recorded and as it was sung of later by the bards who attended.

"I shall make you happy, sweet Lya," Robert slurred, grinning widely at her. "You will like Storm's End. The sea is beautiful and wild. I daresay not more beautiful than you." Such unguarded comments from the mouth of strangers had ever made her uncomfortable, so Lyanna kept her silence. "Here, have a drink!" Robert pushed the wine cup into her hands.

"I am not thirsty, my lord."

"Drink, I said," Robert snapped the next moment, eyes clouding over. "Do not disobey me, my lady." She wondered if he would speak of the Silver Stags he paid for her once more and felt somewhat like a rug.

Sensing eyes watching her and remembering quite well that as a wife she was under the power of her husband, she raised the cup to her lips and took a mouthful, choking on the bitter taste. She had no love for wine. As the liquid slid down her throat she swore to herself that it was only this once. Never again would he have command of her after she was no longer under the watchful eyes of her father. Aye, once South she would find a way to freedom.

Doubtlessly, the see would greet her with open arms should she have no other option in sight. And in truth the thought of water's cold embrace suited her well enough, better than the sharing of her husband's bed when she finally flowered. Alas she was beyond hoping that the day would not come. When it did, if she could, she would give herself to the waves.

* * *

 

The wheelhouse was a nightmare to be ridden in. Lyanna had wanted to ride her mare, but ladies did not ride on the Kingsroad and she was now fully a lady. Old Nan had joined her and would be staying with the young girl until she had her first blood. After that it would be up to her husband to find her proper companions. Lyanna had rolled her eyes at that, but she was forced to accept it whether she liked it or not.

Old Nan was combing her long hair while at the same time speaking of her extraordinary tales. "The Wildlings are a strange lot, my darling," the crone murmured. "Aye, they are. Their women fight alongside the men and they only share the furs of a man who wins them. He must best them in combat to have them. Strange lot."

To Lyanna's ears that sounded like paradise. If only she were a Wildling woman. "Beyond the wall I could have had a chance." She would not have had to be the wife of a man she did not want. "It is a pity."

"Nay, child, no pity. The Wildling are a strange folk. They thrive and grow like the gnarled branches of trees. But there is danger, great danger. It is no place for a lady. No place for a lady. They give their children to the cold death. They give them up for safety, fools. They are not safe. No one is safe."

One of the many perks of having grown up in Winterfell was that she had become accustomed to these ramblings which did not make any sense. Old Nan was fond of telling her chilling stories of otherworldly beings. "The Others aren't real, Nan."

"You think, child?" The old woman cackled pulling on the braid she had been working on. "They are real, summer child. They are as real as you and I." But Lyanna wishes she was as real as the Others. "They come during the long night. Cold and foul. They spared none the last they ruled over the realm. Aye, Kings or sheppards, they all died, succumbed to the freezing kiss of demise. Not even the babes and women heavy were shown mercy. What do you know of the White Walkers, summer child?"

"Do stop, Nan. I am no summer child. It is in Winterfell that I was born and raised. I am Winter." Old tales, Lyanna dismissed Nan's words with nary a thought. If she were to believe everything she heard, where would that leave her? White Walker? For shame, those were stories meant to scare children into submission. "I will hear no more of this nonsense. You claim I am a lady, then as a lady this is my directive. No more talk of fictitious beasts."

"T'was a Stark, you know? Who bedded the Winter Queen. Aye, a Stark he was and she his icy lover." Gnarled hands rested on supple arms. "Starks and winter, aye, tied together, bound forever."

Sighing deeply Lyanna fought the urge to shake the woman's grip away. A whole moon's turn of listening to such talk; she was going insane. "May the gods protect us then."

"They have no power here," the old woman said before starting to hum softly. She dropped the braid, half unfinished, leaving it to Lyanna to do the rest. The crone stared into nothingness.

Knowing little would come out of pestering the woman when she was so, Lyanna settled back against the cushions. They were nearing the hold of her husband. Lyanna fancied she could feel the salty scent of the sea in the air. Cliffs and waters, abrupt cliffs and freezing waters. A watery grave would be her solace once she bled her first. Storm's End hadn't always been the main domain of House Baratheon. Long ago when the name Baratheon was bore by a Targaryen bastard it had been the castle of House Durrendon. With the fall of Argilac the Arrogant it became his daughter's. But war made cowards out of men and cowards were monsters. They had Argella Durrendon bound in chains and given to Orys Baratheon. 'Ours is the fury' had been her words. Baratheon had taken them and the seal. Interloper. Lyanna thought with dread about the seal of her own House. Were the Starks to lose their rulership, how would she feel to see her words and her direwolf tied to the name of another? For Lyanna was a Stark no matter what the Septons said. She was a wolf, and when the time was right her fangs would tear through the stag's neck. Noble animal or not, did Baratheon think that she would bow to a by-blow, when she had the blood of kings in her veins? The Kings of the North, the king Beyond-the-Wall. The strength of the First Men, the wildness of the direwolf. She would not be cowed by a pair of horns when her claws could cut far deeper. Argella Durrendon and she, they were so very close to reflecting the same image, yet Lyanna promised to herself that she would not do as the other woman had done. For even fury could not withstand winter and Lyanna planned to be winter to her very bones.

Storm's End was a giant looming before them on sharp cliffs. Lyanna had looked out the small window she had been provided with. There was little to be seen, yet she could see Storm's End. Winterfell was probably grander and yet it surprised the mind how men could build such things. Nay, it must have been the work of giants. Those heavy stones and the sheer force of its structure. But of course that meant nothing. Dragons could burn such a place to the ground, they could fry the inhabitants in the blink of an eye. Harrenhal had been a lesson to all of Westeros. Balerion the Black Dread. Meraxes. Vhaghar. Lyanna though of wings big enough to span the whole of Robert's men. She thought of rivers of fire. Dreadful. To die burned alive. It had been the fate of Harren. It still haunted his castles some said. Men went to sleep and dreamed of fire and when they woke they had burn marks covering them, that was if they woke at all. Some would just disappear into the night, presumably turned into ash and blown away by the wind. Mayhap Lyanna ought to convince her husband to visit Harrenhal with her.

"My lady, step out of your shelter and come upon my horse," Robert Baratheon's voice boomed just as the wheelhouse came to a sudden halt. "Come now."

Lyanna snarled, but she obediently stepped outside and gave the man a heated glare. "I thank you, my lord, for the kindness." For he might have seen it as a kindness to have her hoisted upon his horse. But she did not. It was humiliating, to be thus presented to the men of his company, like some sort of trophy, like an object.

"You are most welcome, wife." His stubble-covered chin rested atop her head, the heat and scent of sweat clung to him like a second skin. Lyanna froze in his hold like a mouse might when confronted by a serpent. Her mind rebelled against his taking advantage of her. "I hope you will like it here. Just think, we shall raise our babes by the sea."

The very thought of bearing him children disconcerted her. Lyanna was a female, and the maternal instinct was not lacking within her, yet that did not make her willing to have offspring with just any man. And to her Robert was that, just any man. "Yes, my lord, we shall." Giving the man a false sense of safety was her best course of action. If there was anything Lyanna had learned it was that in life one had to compromise, yet with one's mind one could not make such compromises. Thus if one could not stand clean before one's inner eye then it was with shame he would ever greet the world around.

Lyanna found herself the centre of attention once she had passed the gates. The servants had come out to greet their master and once their eyes landed on the young bride, Lyanna could well see their mouths itching to move. They thought her a strange creature mayhap. One fair maiden for their handsome lord. Or rather another fair maiden for their handsome lord.

Robert spoke a short introduction, presenting her as his lady wife, after which he bent down and pressed a small kiss to her firm, unyielding lips. He treated her as if she were an unbroken horse, skittish and still half-crazed for freedom. And Lyanna supposed she was something of that sort. She felt a ghost. People looked through her, as if she were glass as easy to see through as a crystal.

There was a Sept. Lyanna noticed it only as she looked to the east. It was small and looked untended. But of course she hadn't expected that Robert would bring prayer to his gods. The man was too busy drinking himself under the table, she reckoned. Bitter wine, Lyanna tasted it on her tongue. Ivy was climbing the blackened walls. Had someone tried to set it afire? While Lyanna held no love for the Southron gods, she disliked sacrilege. It was a broken vow from those who had pledged themselves to the fate. Before she could think anymore on the subject, she came face to face with Robert's siblings.

Stannis Baratheon, a gave child, his face already made of stone, curtsied with a grim look about his features. "We welcome you to Storm's End, Lady Baratheon." All sharp angles and stiff mannerism.

Renly giggled and tried to imitate his brother. Unfortunately, grace eluded the boy and he somehow managed to trip himself, knocking into Lyanna's middle. Instinctively, the she-wolf encircled the boy in her arms. Seemingly taking her gesture to heart the small stag threw his arms around her. "My mamma was Lady Baratheon too. Does that mean you can be my mamma?"

Heart tearing itself in two, Lyanna combed back the boy's thick curls. What could she say to that? "Wouldn't you rather that I were your good-sister?" She did remember that Robert's parents had lost their lives not too long ago. Likely Renly had been too young to properly know them, and that was the reason for which he would have granted her the place of mother.

"You're pretty, just like momma, and you smell nice too." A compliment of the highest order if Lyanna had ever heard one. Her father should have given her to Renly in marriage. Such a sweet boy he was, innocent and affable. "Are you really going to be my good-sister? We can play court and I will show you all the best places. I will be a knight and you will be a fair maiden and-"

"Enough little brother. Let go of my lady wife," Robert sternly directed, figuratively throwing a bucket of cold water over girl and boy. Dark blue eyes scrutinized the small child. Renly, probably, frightened by the wildness in the older brother's eyes allowed his hands to fall. Stannis pulled the boy back.

White-faced, Lyanna eyed her husband with something like venom. She swallowed the reprimand that came to the forefront of her mouth. She would not make a scene. Silently she promised to herself that once she had rid herself of Robert she would allow Renly his games. Until then she would have to content herself with smiling a small, encouraging smile at the child.

"My lord, may I ask you a question?" Lyanna ironically began when they were finally left on their own, pulling slightly away as Robert made to grab at her. His nod was her cue. "Why is it that you chose me?"

"Come with me." And quite suddenly Robert's whole demeanour had suffered a drastic change. Where once he'd tried to warm her to his touch he now backed away and started towards one entrance that was by far the least grand. Inside there was a gallery and on the walls hung portraits. Lyanna could only assume that they were late kinsmen of his. Robert stopped before what looked like a newer one. From within the gauze a woman stared at them. "My mother," Robert breathed out. "Lady Cassanna."

Cassana Estermont, Lady Baratheon. She had been a beautiful woman. Not the mere pretty of Lyanna. Nay, this was a truly beautiful woman with a light brown curls and wide blue eyes, a shade paler than her son's, and a mouth made for smiling.

"You look a lot like her." The comment brought Lyanna out of her thoughts. She looked towards Robert and it dawned upon her that his affection for her, or whatever it was that compelled him to tear her away from the safety of her home and force her to his side, was a lot like an illness of the eye. It quite distorted the image he had of the world, and subsequently of her. "She would have liked you."

The inkling suspicion that Lady Baratheon would have better liked a woman grown that could also bring something to her son's chests made Lyanna smile. "If you say so, my lord." She supposed that she too would have liked Lady Baratheon if only for the polished surface she presented.

So that had been it? He'd been searching for some sort of substitute for his lost mother. Lyanna's eyes lingered on the woman in the portrait. Those eyes of hers, they seemed to come to life and if she strained she could almost hear a pleasant voice asking her to bring happiness to the castle, to bring happiness to her sons. Lyanna's smile turned bitter. It was not she who could bring the sun on the shadow lands. Turning away she looked to the other portraits hung. "Is there no portrait of Orys Baratheon, my lord?"

At the mention of his ancestor the stag's face turned ashen. "The Targaryen bastard? Nay. No portrait of him or his lady survives."

Targaryen bastard or not, Lyanna considered, it was to Orys Baratheon that Robert owed his seat. Still she held herself back. What use was it to argue so early into their marriage? "I see. Very well then, I do believe I should like to rest awhile."

There was a small fire in the hearth. Lyanna knelt by it, warming her hands. Old Nan had been given quarters away from hers and a young maid was to see to her needs. "You needn't the crone. Let Alys care for you until we may find suitable ladies to attend to your needs." Those had been Robert's words. Lyanna had acquiesced with a small nod.

"Shall I get you anything, m'lady? Wine? Food?" Alys, bless her soul, was a kind girl, slightly older than Lyanna. She had a son about Renly's age, Brynden Waters. A good woman, Lyanna thought, sneaking a glance to Alys, and a good mother.

"Nay, Alys. Sit with me awhile." The invitation was followed by Lyanna gesturing towards a chair. "I have a few questions to ask you. What happened to the Sept?"

"Oh, that's an old story, m'lady," Alys brushed it off. "You needn't concern yourself over it. How do you like your new home, m'lady?"

Ah, so she was not to know anything about the burned Sept. "I shall need some time to get used to it, beautiful though it is." She hadn't the heart to tell her differently. Storm's End was not and would never be her home.

Staring into the flames Lyanna could not help but be mesmerized by them. Fire was not only warm, it had a sort of beauty, primal and uncontainable. Different from the icy splendour of her own homeland. As the wild flames, her home had also been untamed and seemingly untouched by the hands of her. For a brief moment Lyanna allowed herself to see the crystal flowers bloom along the walls. She thought of the light scent of snow. Right until her vision was dashed by waves crashing into cliffs. Nay, the scent of snow was far behind her. She now heard the sea moaning and trashing, and she saw the clear skies through the window, not the heavy clouds promising a snowstorm.

"Is there a beach here, Alys?" She'd heard that sometimes by the sea there were beaches with smooth warm sand. The opposite of snow, yet not all that different. She could built a snow castle as easily as she used to make snow forts in the wolfswood. A big castle by the waterline. Perhaps the little stag would join her. He seemed amendable to such ideas.

"Aye, m'lady. There's a beach not a long walk away from the castle. Mayhap on the morrow after you are better rested you should like to visit it." The girl smiled. "Whose to say m'lord won't join you."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of keep Lord Baratheon from his own dealings. Nay, I believe I shall content myself with Renly if he wishes to come." Heavens forbid. Lyanna would not have her husband there. She needed peace. In fact if she had her way, Robert would be knee-deep in the woes and cares of his house and home. "There then, on the morrow you will join me and little Renly. What say you, Alys? Will you bring Brynden along?"

"Would you like me to tell you a bedtime story?" Old Nan asked just as Lyanna climbed into her bed. "What kind of stories do you like?"

"I'm too old for stories," the young woman laughed gently. She took her hair to one side and began braiding it. "Why do you not tell me about the Others since you seem rather fond of those stories."

"No stories those, sweetling." Old Nan plopped herself down on a wooden chair. Her wrinkled skin shone pale in the dim light. "Do you know why it is they came? The White Walkers?"

"Nay." Lyanna almost laughed at the woman. It was silly that in her old age she still delved upon such childish stories. "I suppose they were some sort of punishment. Men must have angered the gods somehow." Men always did thus. They fought and killed each other until there was little left for the gods, and that angered them. Lyanna was not surprised that they would send such creatures to punish the humankind. T'was not hard to believe. Not when her gods watched a world tinted in red. What was it to them to see the ground darken more? "Punishment. A show of power. But if they destroyed the very thing they created, where would they be left? Are Gods anything without us?" Such questions. Lyanna blinked.

"Gods have existed long before us, and so they shall long after we are gone." There was a certain sort of wisdom to be found in such words, yet Lyanna refused it. "They control everything, child."

Empires have risen and fallen, men have lived and died, and the gods endured. Did they care for these people they had fashioned, or were they playing some sort of game? Was it a test? "Not me. I will be free of them."

"None of us are free." Again Lyanna was confronted by the harsh truth of life. "And you cannot escape the gods, ne'er. Not in your heart. Not in your mind."

"But they have no power here," Lyanna cried out. "You said so yourself. They have no power here."

"Power is what you make it to be." Seeming to take pity on the lady, Old Nan smiled crookedly. "I shall tell you a tale of happy times, child, so you may sleep and have sweet dreams."

What use were sweet dreams to her? Lyanna wanted to scoff at the woman but she dared not, not when Old Nan was the only reminder of home she had in the sea of strangeness. A story couldn't hurt, especially not one of happy times. Lyanna had known few of those, mainly when she was a wee lass and her brother Benjen had been her friend, Eddard her protector, Brandon the insufferable teaser. Happier times. She would hold those close to her heart.

"Once upon a time, back when the trees roamed the earth on unsteady roots and dragons flew upon the darkened skies lighting them with fires, back when the sun was but a weal spark and the moon a beacon, there existed a man by the name of Arnor. He dwelled in a cold river that used to be called Seres. This Arnor loved one of those winged creatures we now call dragons. He spied the she-dragon while she flew high in the sky, and the gleam of her scales in the weak light of her flames, scales shining like precious stones, endeared her to him; so much so that for her he came upon the shores, where he held little swayâ€¦"

 

Rhaegar Targaryen cooed softly to his daughter. Her dark eyes looked to him trustingly. "Do not worry, little love," he said, stroking back her hair gently. "Papa is here, nothing can harm you while I am here." Her night terrors were not uncommon. Rhaegar had expected it. "What has you frightened?"

Rhaenys pointed to the bed. Rhaegar smiled at her. "Shall papa look under the bed?" She nodded solemnly. The Prince inclined his head. "As my Princess commands. This knight shan't rest until ever last one of those creatures is far, far away, unable to cause you any discomfort." He dent down on his knees and peeked under the bed. "Ah, I see. Brave Princess, I am about to face a foul foe. Would you give me a kiss? For good luck."

His daughter giggled and scooted closer to him. Her small hand came to rest on his cheek and she pressed an artless kiss on the other side of his face. "Thank you, fair lady. I shall save you." Again he lowered himself to the ground and went under the bed only to re-emerge on the other side with a victorious grin on his handsome face. "All gone, Princess, every last one of them."

"How?" she asked breathlessly, twin pools reflecting the night sky staring at him.

The father leaned in, "Magic," he told her, wrapping her in his arms. "Your mother taught it to me, you know? She was a beautiful Princess, just like you. She came from a land far away and she brought with her the magic of her people."

"Magic?" Rhaenys repeated. "Do magic again."

"Magic drains one so," Rhaegar said. "I shall close my eyes for a few moments, and then we shall both do magic. Here, come. Let us rest awhile and then I will teach you of it."

Obediently little Rhaenys closed her eyes, and Rhaegar could feel her breathing grow even before long. He looked down to her. She was so much like her mother, all shadow to his light. Elia would had loved her the moment she laid eyes on her, small and damp with blood and crying her lungs out. Rhaegar had fallen for her when they put her in his arms. He still remembered the day. Elia had been in her bed for only three short days after before the stranger claimed her. It seemed that Rhaenys had loved the warmth of her mother's womb too much to come any earlier.

After she had given birth, Rhaegar remembered, that Elia had cried too while murmuring sweet nothings to the babe. Had she lived to see her daughter grow, he was sure she would have been just as enthralled by her as he. "She would have made you a flower crown and braided your hair." Elia would have been a good mother. Death had taken her too soon, his wife.

It hadn't been exactly love that had tied them together, but Rhaegar had cared for her in his own way. Elia had been gentle and sweet, with a sharper wit than many had been able to see. She would have made a good queen, just as good as she'd been a wife. Rhaegar wondered at times how he would have passed these years had Elia been by his side.

A knock on the door had him placing Rhaenys under the covers and taking his leave in as gentle a manner as he could muster. He opened said door to see who it was that disturbed him at such an hour. It hardly came as a surprise to see Cersei Lannister.

The oldest of Lord Tywin's twins, Lady Cersei had made it a sort of personal mission to follow him around and from time to time make passes at him. She meant well, the dear girl, but he feared her father would have quite a shock if ever he found out what she was up to.

"I thought I would find you here, Your Grace," she said in a low voice, quiet as to not wake the sleeping child she knew to be in the chamber.

"The hour is late, my lady," Rhaegar murmured. "You mustn't be out in the night. Go back to your chambers." Her pouting face reminded him of Rhaenys. "Cersei Lannister, need I get one of the Kingsguards to help you find your way?" That would certainly cause quite a racket and no end of questions and gossip.

"I only wanted to help," she sulkily declared, perhaps having thought to act the hostess in her own home. Cersei tossed her blond mane over her shoulder. "Why do you always treat me as if I were a child?"

For the sole reason that he had no interest in bedding beautiful Cersei Lannister. She had the shape of a woman, but her heart was that of a child. She wanted the love she heard about in songs and foolishly sought it in him. Rhaegar dared a small smile. "Thank you for the kind thought. It is help enough, my lady. Allow me to see you safely to your rooms."

That seemed to please her well enough. Cersei locked her arm around his and leaned her rounded chest against the upper part of his arm. Rhaegar shook his head at her transparency. She was a child. He allowed her leeway nonetheless for the fact that, being such, she knew not what her actions meant. Rhaegar convinced himself that once a young knight came to sweep her off her feet she would outgrow the fondness she now seemingly possessed for him.

* * *

 

Lyanna giggled at Renly's enthusiasm. "There now, brave knight, have a care not to knock your castle over." Her warning went unheeded as the boy ran around, stick in hand, shouting commands at Brynden who hurried to follow them. Alys sat by Lyanna, as any self-respecting lady-in-waiting would. "Shush, my dear Alys. Should we distract our valiant saviours all hope is lost." At that the woman burst into peals of laughter. Lyanna followed suit. "Oh, what it is to be young and free!" She missed the days when she could do as she pleased and not be questioned on ever little detail. The gods knew marriage had yet to show any redeeming features.

Her third day at the beach was a success. Renly and Brynden had made fast friends, and seeing them together was almost like watching brothers standing side by side. They looked alike. Despite Alys being light-haired and possessing a pair of eyes so light that in the sun they shone gold, little Brynden had tresses of coal-black and eyes of deep blue. How strange a thing. "You must be very proud of him, Alys. Just look at the boy." He was good, hard-working and honest. "He's as fine as they come. I have no doubt that he'll turn out to be a good sort."

Alys looked to her lady with wide eyes. "I suppose so, m'lady. He helps me as best as he can and then some. I love the boy dearly, yet I also fear." A bastard was a bastard no matter how kind his actions or how sharp his wit. "Sometimes I wonder if I chose wisely in keeping him."

Surprise crossed Lyanna's face."I won't pretend to know your circumstances, Alys, but for all that he is still of your flesh." Then she looked at the boys once more.

"Aye, m'lady, he is. At least half of him." The woman shuffled slightly. "At times it is like living with a ghost."

Choosing not to question the woman further, Lyanna crossed her legs at the ankles and allowed herself to fall back against the sand. Her thought drifted to Robert Baratheon. A scowl touched her face. Lyanna was only grateful that the man hadn't joined them. Few things interested the stag and playing with children was not one of them. Likely because, having as many as he did, he'd outgrown both wonder and any sort of empathy. It hadn't escaped Lyanna just whose Bastard Brynden was. The she-wolf only wished she could have had her brothers with her, so they might spend some time in the company of this paragon of lordly perfection they'd foisted upon her.

Robert liked to hunt and drink. Lyanna had known that. But still she'd thought that for his little brothers he would at least try to be different. Instead all she had witnessed were loud rebukes when one made a mistake and harsh insults should they cross him. And she herself had not been spared a glare or two. Whatever difficulties the man was having, it was not right of him to take them out on the defenceless. He was not a bad man exactly, he was just a man Lyanna could never bring herself to grow fond of.

Highly devout in her belief, Lyanna Stark had oft lamented the state of her universe. It seemed that all had forgotten that it was not the human that made his own path, but the gods that guided his hand. It did not matter; they did not matter. Not to men like Robert Baratheon. Lyanna wondered if she would have had a chance at happiness with some man in the North. Karstarks, Boltons, Glovers, Mormonts, Umbers, Manderlys, Flints. Could she have found a man to love there? Perhaps not. Although it was not for lack of trying.

* * *

 

Rhaegar reached for the quill, gracefully dipping the tip in black ink. He considered Jon's proposal carefully. "You would have me remove the girl from court, on what grounds?"

Shaking his head the older man explained yet again. "You needn't sent her off, if you choose to marry the Lannister maiden. My King, the real needs a Queen. You need an heir." Scratching his beard, Jon went on to say, "Cersei Lannister is from a good family, and she has beauty. She is capable of birthing you a son, surely."

"But?" Rhaegar cut him off. Jon Connington had never been fond of Tywin's daughter. That the King knew. The reason, however, eluded him.

"But she is much like her father, Highness. Give her a finger, and she will take the whole hand, possibly the arm even up to the elbow." The Lannister were something to behold in their hunger for power. Perhaps even more so since Tywin became the head of his House. Rhaegar nodded. "Find her another to wed, someone of high-enough rank to please both heart and mind."

"Who do you suggest?" Cersei was ever bold in her attempts to gain his attention, and Rhaegar, if he was truthful, had grown tired of the display. Of late he found himself avoiding the girl when he could.

"Lord Stark's eldest sons remain unwed." The North had sought ties to the South before. Rhaegar had heard word of such during his father's rule. "They would accept a Southron, perhaps even more gladly is she brought with her a fat purse."

Rightly so, Rhaegar thought. His own marriage to Elia had been based on such considerations. Lord Stark would need to be sent a raven. However he could not order the marriage. "I may have a solution, my friend. A tourney is long since overdue." Provided, of course, that the financial state of the realm allowed for such an even. "What say you?"

"Aye, a tourney would serve well. But what occasion should be invoked?" Granted the people cared little for the occasion so long as they could lose themselves in a skin of wine, and the bosom of a wench, but suspicion was a dangerous thing.

"My friend, I am searching for a wife. What better occasion to meet her than a tourney?" He looked down at the blots of ink on a previously stainless paper. Something cold stole over him - a moment of hesitation. "Tell them it is held for the man I want to honour. To my Hand, Lord Lannister." Indeed, they would suspect nothing, and if he played his cards right, Rhaegar would have won more than one victory.

"As you wish," the other replied, falling in a bow. "I go to do your bidding."

Relaxing in his chair, Rhaegar threw the quill away from his hand. He did need to seriously consider finding a new wife. Dorne may have accepted the ruling of a woman, the other kingdoms would not. Male heirs were needed. Better yet if he found a bride at the tourney. A bride that was not a Lannister maiden with flowing golden lock and mesmerising green eyes. The real problem was Tywin.

It was no secret that his own father had loved the Lady Lannister when the woman yet lived. His own, crazy father has lusted after his Hand's wife, and none had dared point out the immorality. Least of all his own mother, too taken with care of her younger son and her new-born daughter.

Apparently Tywin's lady died giving birth to a horribly deformed child. A dwarf. The boy was almost of an age with his sister. But seldom did Tywin talk of the boy. He much preferred extolling the many virtues of his daughter and the sure hand of his son. Tyrion Lannister was an afterthought at best, and one of a bitter kind if any was to be asked. Joanna Lannister had left quite a storm in her wake.

A knock on his door provided distraction. Rhaegar bid whoever it was to enter. In came Arthur Dayne, a friend of his met through his now deceased wife. "Arthur."

"I saw your friend in a hurry. What have you done now, good King?" A peculiar being, Arthur Dayne had felt deeply for Rhaegar's wife."Has the fair Lady Lannister succeeded in convincing you of her love? Alas, poor girl. She is to be pitied."

"Not at all," Rhaegar laughed. "I shall not marry her. You know my stand on this. But you are more than welcome to her." By the looks of him, neither did he desire the woman. "You too will need a wife soon. Have you not given thought to it?"

Glancing downwards, Arthur cleared his throat. "Elia asked me the same after Rhaenys was born." Violet eyes met a pair much the same. "I see her still when I close my eyes. All that blood." The memory stole over both. "Why ever did you allow me to stay?"

"She was always happier in your company." Whether Elia had loved the man as more than a brother, Rhaegar was not concerned. Yet he'd noticed her smile widening just so at his approach, heard her laugh in the other's company, and as his love for her was not a thing of passion, her turning her attentions upon another did not wound.

"Youâ€¦," Arthur allowed the surprise to seep in his word, "did you ever consider me your rival? When it came to Elia?"

"Nay, that I did not." A few words, so simple. That was all it took. "You brought her comfort. Something which I could not give her for all I tried. I knew I could not love her as she deserved. I could be Prince to her, husband, brother, friend. But lover. Not I."

"Nor I." It was quite the first time Rhaegar had heard that. He leaned in, a curious look on his face. "So say you? I thought for sure she loved a man from the way she sighed so heavily when she thought herself unobserved." She had loved, but not him, nor he her.

"That she did." But the lord said no more. It appeared that Arthur would disclose no more. "Tell me, who shall you marry?"

"A maid that does not go by the name of Cersei Lannister." Arthur's knowing smile prompted a grin for the King. "Would you care to offer me advice on this matter?"

"I say you pick the first one that strikes your fancy. It is unusual for your instinct to fail you" By far the most truthful words of the day. "And yet, choose not of Dorne or House Tyrell."

Another Queen of Dorne would not appease the lords. They all waited for the King to come in his need for a woman and choose one of their daughters. Many were they that dreamed of being Queen. Silly girls with feathers for brains. They knew not what it entailed and yet they desired it above all. As for House Tyrell, the fact that Dorne held little love for them was no secret either. They would take it as an affront if Rhaegar replaced Elia with a Rose maiden. Surely there were other options available to him. Rhaegar needed not a beauty; but a wit, and someone trustworthy. Was he asking the gods for the impossible?

"Wise of you," Rhaegar answered. "Now, I require your word that you shall make an appearance at the tourney."

"You wish me there in case the horde of unmarried maidens decides to hunt for dragon scales." They would hunt either way. "But I shan't refuse else I fear you'll name me craven, when you yourself tremble at the thought of it."

Instead of admitting to it, Rhaegar looked away. The sun was yet upon the sky, but not for long. Again that chill crept down his spine. Was it a warning? If so, against what? Silence fell over the room and its occupants. Yet words were not always needed. As both men had something to contemplate, it was quite enjoyable to be left with one's thoughts.

His mind found Elia once again. She had told him to look for another wife before her death. Rhaegar had been too busy caring for her to give much attention to her words. What could he have done then? Search for another wife when the flowers had not yet wilted on her final resting place. Oberyn would have likely poisoned his wine for such an act.

And speaking of Elia's young brother, little had been said of him. His sister's death had been a great blow. Rhaegar was aware that they were close, both in age, and as companions. He would have to issue an invitation for that one too.

* * *

 

"Can you not tell me a happy tale?" Lyanna asked.

"Happiness is for dreamers and their dreams," Old Nan replied. The North had stories aplenty, but most ended in death. "Have you learned so little?"

"One more dead king, and I will suffer no more stories from your mouth." Lyanna winced at her own voice. She ought not to speak so harshly. "Surely there must be at least a few endings that bring tears of joy and not of sorrow to my eyes."

"Shall I tell of the bridge over the Trident then?" The crone sat herself comfortably in a chair by the fire."I promise this end will not bring tears to your eyes, unless you cry out of joy."

Old Nan knew well enough that Lyanna avoided crying when she could. The girl was everything her dear mother had been and more more still. Lady Lyanna kept her emotions hidden deeply within her bosom. For one so young, she knew too well that particular art. And yet she wept for a hurt horse and for the prince frozen when he'd failed to save his beloved. She wept when the High King cursed his daughter, bold and witty, to fall for the first creature in her path, and cried even harder when she fell for a butterfly, which died in her hands.

"Speak not of Enydae and Sydor, or Salla and brave Irsol. If you must tell me about the fool and the Peach tree, but nothing of death tonight."

The fool and the Peach tree was a beloved tale of the common folk. It was full of bawdy references and lacked refinement, yet it brought a smile to the lips of the listener. If only for the fact that its hero was a fool, unlikely to go against his nature and find himself in the middle of a tragedy. It was an old song turned prose, as sometimes it was impossible for those not born bards to remember all the verses. Lyanna herself remembered the action clearly but not the fine words, though she'd heard the song enough times in her father's halls.

"Nay, child. I'll tell you about the bridge over the Trident. This story you've not heard yet, I'm sure."As was her custom the old woman stared into the fire for a few moments. Anticipation started building in the room. Lyanna settled under the covers when beady eyes turned to her again."Like that, little one. Best hide under those covers while you can." Sometimes such words poured out of her mouth. Lyanna had learned to ignore them.

"Begin your story, or speak no more." Her grace often failed her when she was impatient. "Go on. Tell your story."

"What you hear is more a memory than a story. For it did happen in truth." 'Twas what was said of all stories. Lyanna waved her hand dismissively. "Patient child. Valyria did not rise to power in one day, nor did the Targaryens take all of Westeros in a matter of hours." A brief pause. "Now, the Riverlands are not unknown to you, and the Trident is a friend, old as time that river. But what do you know of the magic of old? Nothing."

"Enough to know 'tis but a story," the girl retorted. It was ludicrous, of course.

"As you say. A King, not wise, nor particularly good, one day, seeing as his spouse gave no child to him, made a pact with the fae of the East. They would give him a child, and he would build for them a bridge over a running water of their choosing." Lyanna needed not the clarification that the fae of the East, dwellers of sand dunes, could not cross running waters. "The King accepted. Stupid fools knew not that he'd sealed the fate of his kingdom in his folly."

"How so?" Lyanna asked. "A King needs an heir."

"Aye. But the fae are a naughty folk. They keep their word only as much as they think will suffice. In this they did the same. The King received a child, indeed, once the last stone of the bridge was laid. But what a child!"

Did she not mean the heir? Lyanna leaned in. Nan continued. "A beautiful child, with skin as white as fresh snow, and golden, golden hair â€“ a gift from the followers of the sun â€“ and eyes the colour of honey. Yet the babe was not what the king had wanted. A child, aye. But a girl she was; as sure as mine own name is Nan, 'twas a girl they gave for his work."

Lyanna giggled. She has expected something of the nature. "Good! He deserved it."

"In his anger, the King took the child and demanded an explanation. The fae fluttered their wings of summer rays. They tittered. They laughed at him. They danced around the wide-eyed child, whispering in her ears. One by one they touched a finger or a toe, a hair of her head, a cheek of smooth skin." A sudden cough interrupted the story. Nan recovered quickly though. "So the King decided he would break the bridge for their betrayal and the child's blood would stain the stone steps."

"I thought you were telling me a happy story," the young woman protested.

"Happy. Happy," Nan parroted. "But what the King did not know was that his very own Queen had taken a liking to the child. Devising a plan, she took the girl and wrapped instead a skin filled with wine in her place. She gingerly covered the skin in silk and gave it to her husband, telling him to throw the babe before it could wake and cry, so the folk may not know of the cruelty. And so the man did. Upon his wife's word he rode to the bridge and threw the burden in his hands as far as he could."

"And the little girl?" Lyanna had almost jumped out of the bed.

"In this time the Queen placed the babe in the arms of a scullery maid, telling her to care for the child as if it were her own. She gave for that gold and silver and promisesâ€¦"

* * *

 

Cersei stroked her long hair, a smile on her lips. She looked in the glass. Her smile widened. "He smiled at me today," she whispered excitedly to her reflection. "I know he likes me, I just know." After all, no man could resist her. Cersei leaned back in her chair. She would be Queen. She would he Rhaegar's wife and give him many, many strong sons and beautiful daughters.

"Has he, indeed?" Tywin asked. It might have been pride on his face. Cersei could not tell. "Then why does he not speak more than two words to you?"

"His wife died, father. Perhaps he fears bringing me injury." In her mind it made sense. "He is almost ready. I know it. Give me a little more time."

"As much as you wish," he replied. "I know it is a task that takes effort." Alas that did not stop him from being disappointed with the King's lack of passion when it came to his daughter. She was a woman not many could ignore and Tywin had hoped that given the obsession the Mad King had had with Joanna would have triggered some inability in the son to resist his daughter.

Cersei was her mother's very image. Tall and slender, with a head full of golden curls and the most amazing green eyes. She was beauty incarnated. So how was it that Rhaegar took one look at her and found her lacking? He has thought that after Elia Martell â€“ who had not been exceptionally pretty or especially endearing â€“ the boy would appreciate a wife with beauty.

Thinking about Joanna always brought a host of memories upon him that he could not easily tolerate. Joanna had been the love Tywin never thought he'd find. And there she was, breathing again through their children. Cersei and Jaime. Joanna, Joanna, more dear to him than a mountain of gold. More dear than his position. More dear than his own life. How he wished she'd stayed. He would have forgiven her anything, everything.

But now there was Cersei. Now there was Jaime. They would carry on the legacy. House Lannister would continue on proudly. The Lion would not fade, not with such fierce cubs. Cersei only needed some more time to convince the King of her adoration.

A small lion for the throne. The thought would lift even the spirits of the dead.

"When does my brother return? Cersei asked, her face frowning. "He's been gone so long."

Bonded as twins, the two were inseparable. Tywin indulged her curiosity. "He comes, daughter. It won't be long now." Joanna had feared the closeness between brother and sister. Tywin had laughed softly, assuring her that it was better like that. Cersei would always find help and protection in her brother. "Give him time."

"I have given him enough time," she answered sullenly. To her it felt as if her own brother was avoiding her. And for what had he left her? For the monstrosity her mother had birthed before dying.

Aye, no better word existed for the strange, sickening creature that was her youngest brother. Tyrion Lannister was, simply put, a dwarf. Not a miniature man, cute and childlike. But a twisted imitation of a human, with a big head and too small a body. How that had come out of her mother, Cersei honestly did not want to know. But she dearly wished her brother did not give the creature so much attention.

What could she do? Jaime had a soft heart and he could not help but pity their brother. She supposed she ought to wait patiently for his return. When he did come back they would finally be together. They could walk the gardens and be with one another all they liked. Two halves of the same whole. It hurt to be apart from him. The only thing that kept her going was her own ambition. And yet, it still upset her, even if she did not wish to let it show. In a perfect world she would not need to hide her love for him.

Targaryens wed brother to sister for hundreds of years. And Cersei was not likely to take her brother's seed. In all their years it had not happened once. She was careful. Jaime too. No problem would ever expose them. And if did, what? If others could get away with this supposed abomination, what stopped her and her brother? The Faith of the Seven? The gods were absent. Had they been there, her life would have been another. Had the gods cared enough, her mother would have still been with her. They would all be happy. She would have no need of Dragons or any others. The Lion would sit the throne proudly. In a perfect world. But her world was not perfect.

The soft summer rain beat against the wood. Cersei scowled thinking of all the mud it would render. The skirts of her dress would be stained if she was not careful. And she had planned to take Jaime with her for a walk, away from prying eyes. "Damn this rain." Again the scowl.

Tywin smiled. Indeed, she reminded him of Joanna. "Your mother disliked the rain too." The sun had always looked better, nestling its rays in her curls. Joanna had been a creature of light, that nobody could deny. Her children seemed to follow her in that. Her sweetness and his wit. So perfect a combination. "On the morrow you will need to wake early."

"The King goes hunting?" Curious. Rhaegar Targaryen did not hunt.

"Not at all," Tywin answered. "But I would like you to be present for your brother's arrival. He brings with him a surprise."

Now Cersei was sure she would not be able to sleep a wink. It stood on the tip of her tongue to ask what he spoke of. But she held herself back. She would find out in a few short â€“ rather long in her opinion â€“ hours. Jaime could not arrive fast enough. Cersei smiled at her reflection.

"Of course. I miss my brother dearly, and would like nothing better than to greet him." In a manner of her own, away from the eyes of all. But that she did not say. Some things her father did not need to know. "I shall see you come morning."

That night Cersei tossed and turned. She had predicted it. Yet she could not avoid it, just as she could not deny that her heart jumped at the mere though of seeing her sweet brother again. How lonely she'd been without him. The bed felt so big in his absence. "Jaime, come! Ride faster," she asked. But not her brother. Nay, she prayed to the stars.

They were thousands. Surely they could bring word to her brother. And he would come. Fast as the wind on his horse.

Sleep eluded her. Cersei played with the corners of her coverings. "It is simply too long until morning." Yet she had nowhere to go. She sighed and closed her eyes.

"My lady, I have news of a nature to sweeten your disposition," Robert told her, a smile blooming on his handsome face.

Wiping the excess of food from her lips, Lyanna gave him a cold stare. "My mood is perfectly amiable, my lord." She hesitated over using the word 'husband' for the sole reason that it would seem like acceptance on her part. And Lyanna would sooner drink poison than accept Robert for a husband.

"Even so," Robert laughed, "hear what I have to say. The King holds a tourney to honour his Hand. As if Lannister needs his ego stroked."

Politics were not unknown to Lyanna. Up in the North she'd had little need of it, true, but she had had the curiosity to ask of Maester Walys some information. But now she had moved South. Perhaps it was time to truly learn. "I am sure he does an admirable job of it. What of this tourney?"

"I would join in the mirth, my lady, and would see you happy. King's Landing will surely agree with you." He took her hand in his. "I know you miss your home. I know you are not ready, but I will be patient for you."

The gall of him, acting as if he was doing her a favour. Her unoccupied hand tensed on the sharp knife she'd used, a half formed desire coursing through her. Lyanna nodded nonetheless, pushing back the desire to draw blood. "Then let us away to the tourney." Hopefully the gods would take pity on her and have a sword or a lance make her a widow. A merry widow to be sure.

"About the other night," he began, eyes lowering. "Do not feel slighted, my Lyanna. I would not wound your heart. I know 'tis no excuse, yet I was in my cups and the wench offered herself to me. I was not thinking straight."

The poor woman. Lyanna had been insulted. Not so much because he would so shamelessly couple with a servant without an ounce of fineness or discretion, as for the fact that her honour had been touched. In truth, she did not give a single fig if the man bedded a dozen women, so long as he spared her the sight of it. Which blessed occurrence hadn't happened, as Robert had decided to make use of the sturdy walls of his keep to fornicate.

"My heart is not wounded, my lord," she replied woodenly. Revulsion struck her. This was not her. She should have thrown the wine in his face and made for the stables and head away, anywhere but where she was. And she would have just that were it not for the unexpected blessing of the tourney.

Feeling slightly queasy, Lyanna excused herself. "I would lie down awhile. It must be the heat getting to me."

"Of course. I shall help you to your rooms," Robert offered.

"Nay, there is no need. I am sure once I have rested I shall be better." Brushing him off had become one of her favourite activities, besides avoiding him that was."Nan and Alys will suffice." One could never be far enough away from Robert Baratheon.

Lyanna saw herself to her bedchamber, clutching her middle. A sort of nagging pain has settled there. "By the gods!" She hurried into her chambers.

Alys looked at her as she entered, fussing over a dress. She was about to comment on the fine skirts when she noticed Lyanna's pallor. "My lady!" she rushed to the younger woman. "Are you unwell?"

Pushing against her middle, Lyanna looked at Alys. "It hurts." Bleakly, Lyanna wondered if even the food would sour in Robert's presence. It would not surprise her were it true, yet she was mildly annoyed at the pain she had to endure for it. By the gods, to have been thus cursed, Lyanna was certain she must have done something truly atrocious before finding her way into the world.

"Into bed then," Alys instructed. "I'll send for some tea to settle you. Try to close your eyes. Old Nan, won't you help the poor darling out of her dress?" That questioned was addressed to the woman who had stepped into the bedchamber, quiet as a shadow.

Lyanna fell asleep with relative ease. She could not even wait for the tea to be brought up. Nan covered her, whilst giving her a searching stare. Unbothered, the young girl slept on. Whether she dreamed or not, who was to tell? Yet she looks as if she dreamed. The crone hoped her dreams were sweet. She deserved dreams of a sweet kind. Many a maiden deserved such dreams.

Waking with a start Lyanna barely caught the last vestiges of light caressing a dying sky. There was something poignant about the sun setting. It felt like a goodbye. The day that had passed; she would never see the likes of it again. It was time she would never get back. The day was ended and with it all possibilities died. Some found this moment to be beautiful. Lyanna was filled with nostalgia. In most stories the darkness that followed brought death.

Sleep was a kind of death, only without the permanence or finality of the latter, was it not? One could argue that every sunset brought with it a taste of death.

Yet the night also paved the way for a new day. One had to admire the sun's persistence. No matter how many times it fell from its perch high in the sky, it always came back to offer light and warmth. It was little wonder that people considered it a hero of sorts; in songs anyway. The first people were said to have worshipped the sun before the learned of the old gods. Had the last of the Stark kings remembered to pray to this invincible god as well as the old ones? Lyanna wondered at that a few moments longer.

"You are awake," Nan observed from her place in the doorway. "The gods are good."

"Good? Had they been good they would've ended my suffering," Lyanna murmured under her breath. "What has happened?"

"You caught a chill." Nan had imparted the information on Lyanna as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to catch chills.

"Me?" Lyanna laughed. "I haven't been ill sinceâ€¦" She hadn't been ill since her mother's death. That was the last time Lyanna had been sick. She survived; her mother hadn't been quite as lucky. "I've no chill."

"But you do," the elder insisted, moving towards the bed. She gently lifted the covers and a bit of her skirts, and Lyanna grasped. Underneath her was a bloodstained piece of cloth. "For the next few days, my lady, you are feverish." The old woman drew the coverings over her. "Such a pity, child. This cold."

She had escaped. But just barely. Lyanna drew in a shaky breath and caught the old woman's hand, squeezing it as a sign of gratitude. She could say nothing though, could barely think around the fact that she might have forced into Robert's bed had he knows or even suspected her ailment had nothing to do with a mild chill.

"It is the sudden change of climate," Alys commented entering the room with a tray laden with food. "Same thing happened to my boy. Must have caught it at the beach, my lady. You ought to take more care of yourself," she spoke softly.

That was fortunate. Perfect timing. Mayhap her gods had not forgotten her after all. Lyanna managed a wan smile, still torn between relief and worry.

She had a few questions to ask of good old Nan. But they would have to wait, for the sound of footsteps could he heard outside. The heavy footfalls of a large man. Robert looked inside her room. Since no privacy was to be afforded to her, Lyanna chose to busy herself with the selection of cold meats Alys had brought.

"My lady." He entered, brushing past the other two without any acknowledgement of their presence whatsoever. "Tell me you feel fine." He persistently took her hand in his even as she subtly fought to break free of the hold. Was he truly that daft?

"I am as fine as may be expected," Lyanna spoke quietly, adding a series of coughs just to be sure the ruse worked. It wouldn't do to be caught so soon. Her illness needed to last, at least until Robert was fitted for a coffin.

Lyanna had in mind the most beautiful model, made of dark, lacquered wood. She would not be stingy with the food either. Slanting Robert a look, she tried to gauge just how much damage she could do to him with the meat fork. But she knew she stood little chance. He was simply too strong for her to take on.

And yet, Storm's End had a great deal of stairs and cliffs and, if she searched hard enough, Lyanna was sure she could find even some traps. If she could possible lead Robert into one as if by accident. Or even lure him there and simply claim he'd disappeared, spirited away by the ghost of Argella Durrendon. The pleasing thought almost wrangled a smile from her. Lyanna barely hid it. Indeed, if she were to ever receive news of such a demise, she could be sure to treat his funeral with an appropriate degree of gravity.

* * *

 

"What do you mean the King intends to search for a wife?" Rickard Stark growled. "You told me he was not of a mind to take another to his Queen."

"Because he was not." Varys calmly sipped his wine. "And now he is." The eunuch seemed unfazed by the Wolf. "Might I remind you, my lord, that House Baratheon is just as respectable. They share blood with the Targaryens." He shared a look with Walys Flowers, as if to send a message.

"Aye, but they are not Targaryens." It seemed that only then did Rickard realise the mistake in making haste of his daughter's marriage. Maester Walys did not rise from his seat, but the hard set of his mouth left little doubt that he was as displeased at his master at the new twist.

"My daughter's marriage has yet to be consumed." That might be their saving grace. Lyanna was little more than a girl, yet unflowered,

"You would seek to divorce the poor girl?" the bald man asked, astonishment seeping into his features."It would be quite a scandal. I am certain her situation would be further complicated." There were only a few reasons for which the High Septon might be induced to separate a wedded couple and most did not paint either partner in a favourable light. "Besides, my lord, Robert Baratheon is not exactly known for being chaste and in control of his passions. How are we to know he has not taken his rights of her?" Therein lay the crux of the matter.

Cursing, Rickard jumped to his feet. Why couldn't the King have left mourning behind him earlier? Now Lyanna was married to that oaf. And the High Septon was unlikely separate them. But death might. Struck by the thought, the man leaned against his desk. "A widow though? A young, healthy widow? Surely that would be acceptable."

"Provided that she does not carry another man's child," Varys opinionated. "Alas, Robert Baratheon is in good health." Maester Walys was nodding his head.

Woe to him. He had only thought to provide the girl with the highest position he could find for her. Had he known the King would come out of mourning he would have refused Baratheon's suit and made do with the few pieces of gold and silver left. Lyanna had been too young anyway.

"The Hand of the King also vies for the position of good-father. Cersei Lannister is quite a beautiful young lady." The eunuch rose from his seat gently. "If your daughter were to attend the tourney though, surely she could capture the King, move him enough with her plight."

But Rickard already had his own plans. Robert Baratheon would need to be removed somehow. Fortunately the man was known for his wild ways. He wenched and caroused and had more bastards than Rickard had fingers. True, his father had been a different sort of man; the son was but a poor reflection. Ah, he needed his daughter back. One way or another he would see her safely back in his hold.

"How old is the King's daughter?" Rickard asked suddenly.

"Not old enough to remember her mother," Varys replied. "At her age she would need a kind, gentle hand. She would need a mother. And who better to know than a girl who has grown up without a mother and understands her pain. Does Lady Lyanna like children?" No one could possibly fault the Spider's mind.

"She always took great care of her younger brother after my wife's death." Lyanna had had something of Lyarra in her where family was concerned. Lyarra had been fiercely protective of their young ones and Lyanna had always made it her mission to protect Benjen, whether by teaching him to parry blows with a stick or by loudly berating Brandon for teasing the youngest brother mercilessly.

Nodding his head, Varys held back a smile. "I hope we meet again soon, my lord." He bowed and made his exit, leaving Rickard behind with only Walys Flowers for company. Given the late hour, Rickard dismissed the other man as well.

Later a knock on the door distracted the good lord Rickard from his thoughts. "Enter!" the man ordered softly.

Brandon, his eldest, came in. "Father, you wished to see me?" Tall and broad shouldered, he was the first child Rickard had with his wife. The pride of his father, and the eventual heir to Winterfell. Unlike Lyanna and Eddard, Brandon and his youngest son had the blue eyes of their mother, a watered- down cerulean colour, reminiscent of summer skies. The hair too was somewhat different from Rickard's own, a shade darker; darker than Lyanna's or Eddard's. His mother would have been proud to see the gallant knight her firstborn had grown up to be.

The only complaint Rickard had regarded Brandon's obstinacy. Another Stark trait that had unfortunately mingled with a volatile temper in his eldest. A dangerous combination by all accounts. "Indeed. Sit down, boy. We need to talk." He paced in front of the hearth. "What's this I hear about you and Ryswell's daughter?"

Straightening his posture, Brandon blinked up at his father."I wish to take her to wife." There was steel there in his voice.

As of late his children seemed to have developed better judgement than him regarding the matters of wedding. Rickard seriously considered his son's statement for a moment. "Ryswell will be only too glad for it." And there was the heart of the matter. Little could be gained from the marriage for the Starks. Barbrey Ryswell was her father's second born and had little in the sense of dowry. If she were to wed into House Stark, then she would be a further burden upon the coffers. "Have you truly given this matter serious thought, my son?"

"My wording must have been wrong," the boy said then, eyes narrowing. "I'm not asking for approval. I am telling you what I intend to do."

Throw any possibility of advancing them all into the dirt; that was what he would do. All of it, everything for a woman. Rickard's hand itched strangely. "Your sister had the grace to submit when it came her time to do her duty by the family."

"My sister spent days praying her betrothed would fall off his horse and break his neck." Brandon's eyes took a haunted look. "But I am not like her, father. Should you push a marriage onto me, I will make it so that no maiden will ever wish to marry into House Stark."

"Barbrey Ryswell, then. Go through with this and I disown you. See if she wants you then." He hadn't yelled the words, but his face had gone livid all the same. "See if your love keeps fed, warm and clothed. You are young and foolish. You bed a woman and make her promises, and think you know something about love."

"All the same, my lord. I have made up my mind." For a brief moment he looked like he might say something else, but in the end he shook his head. "I suppose I shan't see you again. Farewell then."

"As you wish." Hopefully after a while the boy would see the error of his ways. Rickard waved him away. There was nothing quite like a few days of hunger to bring a disobedient child back with his tail between his legs. "Just know that despite your obstinacy, my door is always open to you."

Something like pity made its way to his son's eyes. The boy gave him a sad smile. "As I said, farewell, father. For a short while I thought you were the greatest man alive."

Such did the mind of youths work, Rickard assured himself. He only needed a bit of patience and Brandon would be before him, ready and willing to wed whoever was chosen for him.

The doors closed silently, and, for some reason the Lord of Winterfell could not name, it felt more permanent than he would have liked it to.

* * *

 

Employing her guile to the very best of her abilities, Lyanna was still pretending her sudden illness when a letter came from her father. She hadn't expected this, not after their conflict when she left. Alys had came running with it in her hands, barely bobbing a curtsy.

"Thank you, Alys. You may leave," she said between coughs.

Unfolding it gingerly, Lyanna did not know what to expect of the written message. She wondered if he would ask after her well-being or if he should find more interest in knowing whether she'd done her duty by Robert. Had she any brains she would have burnt the thing. Yet she couldn't bring herself to do so; curiosity was much too great. She sat in her bed for a short while admiring the man's penmanship without actually concentrating on reading the words. But she could not put off finding out its contents forever.

'To my daughter,' the letter began and went on to describe the most tedious things Lyanna had ever read in her life in a verbose manner which, in its richness, lost all apparel of eloquence. There were questions about her health as well as about the general state of Robert's domain. She read on hoping to find some sign of remorse, some contrition. There was none. Lyanna fairly seethed. Yet as she neared the end of the letter something caught her eye. A corner of the thick paper was folded slightly.

Her father was a neat person. In fact he would not send a letter if the paper was not perfectly smooth and the writing even. Her fingers touched the paper again and rubbed it gently. It was thicker than the one he normally used. Making a soft sound of desperation she fiddled the paper, trying to part it with a sharp nail. This time, to her surprise, underneath she found another parchment, this one written in a smaller script.

'You will forgive the guise, my dear daughter, and if you have wits about you this message of mine will have been destroyed at the end of you reading it. A mistake has been made.' Lyanna read the starting lines and gave a snort. He evaded the blame, as always; so much like her father. 'Your marriage was a grave miscalculation, indeed; I cannot bring myself to call it anything but. I shall explain when we see one another again. Until then make sure your husband takes you to the tourney in King's landing, and do not share his bed under any circumstances. Do what you must to preserve your innocence.'

Insufferable! Lyanna raged at her father's curt note. How dare he? He forced her to wed a man she held in contempt, then changed his mind? As if she could take her word back. There had been witnesses. Her brothers, some men of Robert's, a septon. Gods! She would not get out of the marriage just by speaking to her father. For pity's sake, she had lived with Roberts for three moon's turns. Who would believe her a maiden still after such long a time?

He called her marriage a mistake, which promoted the young woman to wonder just how much thought he'd given to this union.

Had he listened, she would have been free to follow any instruction of his. Any man other than Robert would have been bearable.

That was not honest though. There were men worse than Robert, Lyanna thought a moment later. He had been kind to her. But even that fact did not stop her from wanting a way out of her current marriage. Enydae had escaped an unwanted marriage by prickling her finger on the tip of a poisonous bramble. Lyanna doubted she would find such flora in these parts. In lieu of natural remedies to her heartache and existential problems she would have to make due with the, uncertain at best, help of her father and her own luck â€“ which she never bothered to ask the gods if it was good or bad.

On top of all she was now truly a woman, and had to keep her husband from discovering it, else she'd forfeit her maidenhead to him. Her worry for her virtue was far suppressed by the utter disgust Robert's touch provoked her. Why it should be so, Lyanna could not rightly tell. Was it spite? Was it the hope that love was somewhere out there?

Nay, not that. Songs and stories had their charm. But Lyanna was well aware that only few creatures were fortunate enough to find love within their own marriage.

Pushing those thought away, she tried to search for a valid reason for her father's sudden change of mind. While not an apparent active figure in the struggle for power within the realm, his attention was never far from the capital. Lyanna remembered that after the Queen's death, when she had been but a child, her father had held hopes of an alliance with the ruling House of Westeros. Yet the King had claimed he would take no bride, for he needed to mourn the passing of his wife and child. Lyanna had been touched by his decision. He must have loved his wife. She had wanted that; a man like that to be clear.

The former Queen had been a Princess of Dorne. From the talk of people she had been a gracious, witty woman with a face as fair as her character. A Princess and her Prince. Had she loved her husband? She must have. At the very least she had been a good wife to him. Princess Elia had died in the childbed without ever managing to give the realm the heir it needed. It was unfortunate that the matters had progressed so. To lose his beloved so swiftly, Lyanna did not want to think of the King's pain. A harsh blow. A lesser man would not have recovered. But she supposed that a man responsible for a realm had not been given much choice.

Lyanna took her father's note and read it again. She could not say she trusted his word, yet curiosity would not let her bed. She would need to make sure Robert took her to the tourney.

Nan assured her the flux would not hold more than a few days after it settled, and her pains had receded somewhat since the first day. She had further said it was the first few times that were longer and more painful, that her body needed time to adjust.

Lyanna thanked whichever gods had been watching over her when the day finally came for them to begin their journey. It had taken her some persuading to convince Robert she was much better, and that she did wish to make it the journey. Her husband had been of a mind to leave her at Storm's End and go by himself. Lyanna would hear none of it however. She insisted and perhaps because he imagined himself so fond of her Robert allowed it in the end.

This affection Robert presented her with bothered Lyanna. Alys had comforted her, saying that the Lord of Storm's End did indeed like her truly and that she should give him the chance to prove himself. She went on to remind the young woman that he had been gracious and proper, and he had not bothered her. "You needn't act as if you were made of ice, m'lady."

It stood on the tip of her tongue to retort that it was no act. But Lyanna calmed herself enough to manage a thin smile. "I am yet shy of him, I confess. What girl would not be?" He was handsome and could certainly act charming when he wished to. If she had been the sort to be taken in by good features and a bit of attention Lyanna supposed she would have found it in herself to disregard the aspects she disliked. But she was not, and she could not bring herself to like the man, least of all to love him.

Alys nodded serenely. She changed the topic to something more comfortable. "You are to see your brothers again, no? And your lord father. You must be excited."

Folding her hands in her lap, Lyanna blinked in the following silence. "Yes, I have. My youngest brother most of all." A memory flashed before her eyes. "We were very close, the two of us, in age and in almost everything else. And my mother's death brought us even closer."

"Were you very young when your lady mother passed away?" Alys asked, interest painted on her face.

"Indeed I was. After Benjen's death mother was rather weak and sickly. The maester said she could get better provided that no complications appeared." Lyanna wringed her fingers. She remembered quite vividly the dark lines under her mother's eyes and the wane smiles."It had been snowing then. Mother loved the snow. I was excited about it too." Her smile had been so pretty that day, full of life. "She took me out despite the maester's protests. It was nowhere near as cold as our winters usually are, but apparently it was cold enough." Something like tears blurred her vision.

"You poor dear." Alys patted her hand in a gesture of comfort. "She would have been so proud of the lady you are now."

"Thank you," she replied, brushing the tears away. Of course she did not quite believe those words. "I keep wishing that I hadn't been so eager to go outside that day. Perhaps she might have lived today to see me as I am."

"You cannot blame yourself, m'lady. 'Tis for the gods to decide how long we have on this earth," the maid observed in that manner simple people were so fond of.

Knowing that she meant well, Lyanna nodded. "Perhaps," the she-wolf sighed. Either way her mother was long gone. "After her death Benjen and I were inseparable. He was so attached to me that for a few years we shared a bed. He was so very frightened of snowstorms."

But they had grown apart. Lyanna did not know the reason but soon after she reached her eighth nameday Benjen quit her company for the more interesting one of the village boys and squires. She hadn't understood then. But now that she thought about it, it came as a certainty that her father had persuaded his youngest to do so.

Brandon and Eddard were good enough brothers to have. The first very jovial and always open to spending some time with his siblings, Brandon had once taught her how to properly swing a sword and she had taken to the lesson. But never more than that for he lacked the patience. Eddard was quieter and like her he was fond of riding. It was he who taught her and Benjen to ride properly, despirt Bandon being he better horseman. Unlike their oldest brother though Ned was constant and meticulous. Lyanna loved both her older brothers, but her absolute favourite had to be Benjen in the face of their bond.

The journey to King's Landing would take awhile, Robert had told her. While being confined in a wheelhouse was not something Lyanna relished, the thought of it separating her and Robert more than made up for it. Besides she had grown quite used to having Alys and Nan as company and little Renly, who now slept in her arms. Stannis had chosen to ride with his brother. Combing her fingers through the short hair of the child, Lyanna could not help the surge of adoration that shot through her. If her father's plan did succeed, Renly would be the one she missed most. It seemed such a pity she would not be able to see him as she did now. And yet if she could bring about her separation from Robert, Lyanna would endure.

In regards to Rickard Stark, Lyanna hardly knew what to make of him. A good night's sleep hadn't cleared her mind, nor did it make her father's intentions easier to understand. Without much hope of making out his plan, Lyanna allowed her head to fall back again the cushions. She would deal with it when it came. And likely have more reason to be upset with her father. Why could he not ask her, just once, what it was that she wanted? It would not be such a sacrifice, nor such a burden, she reckoned.

The quiet soothed her. She allowed her thoughts to run free. She needn't yet look for trouble where there was none to be had.

* * *

 

Rhaegar looked upon his daughter indulgently. He did so enjoy spending time with his Princess. Rhaenys was currently playing with a piece of parchment, her brows furrowing. The quill trembled in her hand, but she brushed the lines on the paper as she wanted to. Her Septa had suggested that she be fetched her colours, but Rhaenys had refused quite firmly, claiming that she would make an exercise in penmanship. Her father had laughed and handed her both quill and parchment, waving the Septa away with a gentle gesture.

"How goes your writing, daughter?" he asked while his fingers claimed one of the lemon cakes on a silver tray. At her age she knew not her letters, yet that did little to dampen her mood or her desire to practice said letters.

Rhaenys looked up at him with a smile. She shook her head. "I am not done yet, father." She used the most charmingly serious voice she was capable of producing. His daughter preferred blood oranges to lemon cakes, so it did not surprise him see her fingers reach out for that. "How do you write your name?" she asked suddenly.

Beckoning her closer, Rhaegar hoisted the girl up, placing her in his lap. Rhaenys had held on to her quill and the paper was easily reached by his longer limbs. He could not help ruffling her hair when he saw all the lines criss-crossing over the white surface. Rhaegar took her small hand in his, closing his fist around hers. He found an empty spot and placed the tip of the quill a millimetre away. "Pay close attention," he said, lowering their hands until the tip scratched the paper.

Elegant even when writing, Rhaegar rounded the letters with his usual grace, the ink flowing. The meticulous brushes were not impeded by Rhaenys. She knew to allow her father to guide her through the strokes. For his part, Rhaegar was pleased by it. "There you are."

"Write mine," she demanded with a giggle. And knowing he could not refuse her, Rhaegar once again took the quill, dipping it in ink. Rhaenys followed him with her eyes, marvelling at the graceful form. "And mother's. Write mother's name too."

He imagined she was much like any child left without a mother, but sometimes her hunger for knowledge caught him by surprise. Elia's absence was a void he could not seem to fill with all the stories and all the pretty pictures. In that moment it seemed that he had chosen a wise course of action in starting his search for a wife. Rhaenys needed a mother, someone to care for her and a person she could rely on and come to love.

Writing Elia's name on a piece of parchment felt forced and foreign. Before their marriage they had not exchanged letters. After, they were in the company of one another on a daily basis. Even so, Rhaegar had never felt more alone than in those first years of marriage. What a thing it was, to be surrounded by people and yet to feel utterly alone and lonely.

Not unlike many marriages with persons outside of his own House, the prospect of Rhaegar wedding Elia hadn't been enthusiastically met. Rhaegar himself hadn't been exactly thrilled by it. Yet he knew well his duty even from a young age. But his mother had only another son, and no daughter for him. And so, Dorne lent a helping hand in the form of their oldest Princess being given to the Crown. For them the bargain they struck was quite rewarding, and not only in and of itself.

The first he ever saw of Elia, was a miniature portrait of hers. It was not customary, but he was the Prince, and as such they endeavoured to endear his betrothed to him. In person, Elia was not much different from the picture they painted of her. She was tall and elegant, at that time a bit taller than him even. He'd been just a boy, for all he had four and ten years to him. She was already a woman when he married her. Not that he begrudged her the experience. Rhaegar did think he was quite unable to force himself into feeling more than a vague sense of pity for his departed wife.

The Dornish had always given their love freely, with much more ease. Rhaegar used to think that it was all that heat and the sand. Elia had made him a man. Gentle, witty Elia had cupped his face in bronze hands and kissed him in a way that no other woman had before. She had enjoyed teaching him, but with time the novelty wore off and she craved something more, something different. And Rhaegar understood and stepped aside. Despite sharing a bed, they did not, at any point, share their hearts.

Rhaenys had been perhaps their strongest link; as children often were. Elia had loved her from the moment she suspected the child's existence. For whatever else might be said about his erstwhile wife, her child had meant the world to that woman, the point around which all else revolved. And who could have blamed Elia when only a child could be truly hers?

For Rhaegar Rhaenys became a reality only when they placed her small, wiggling body in his arms, just little after she'd been borne. He had marvelled at her size and the image so close to her mother's. Glancing at her now, Rhaegar could tell that she would grow to be just as tall as Elia. Although her hand was small and delicate, her fingers were elegant and long, her skin kissed by sun and her eyes dark and clever. If anything there was more of Elia in his daughter than he had first thought. And for whatever reason, the fact bothered him not at all.

Something slithered against his leg, distracting Rhaegar from his memories. Balerion purred in contentment when Rhaegar scratched the cat behind its ears. Balerion, such a fitting name. The cat was black and incredibly big. Rather rotund with a coat of inky fur and golden eyes. It was also the most impertinent house pet Rhaenys had yet to acquire. What with its habit of stealing chunks of meat from the kitchens and chasing ravens and pigeons alike, Rhaegar was not surprised. The only thing that baffled him was his daughter's attachment to the little beast. His namesake would have been proud.

"Balerion!" Rhaenys exclaimed, finally noticing the tom rubbing against her father's leg. She bent down and picked him up despite her father's protests. "Oh, papa, Balerion is a nice kitty."

"There was never any doubt of it, my Princess." Nay indeed. Rhaegar's wryness was only meant to point out that while the cat's niceness was never in question, its suitability as a pet for his daughter was another story altogether. For, of course, the animal was magnificent in its own way, from the tips of its sharp claws to the insolent wag on its tail. Likely the beast knew its superiority and was not at all averse to showing it.

A little too young to observe all the subtleties and nuances of an adult's speech, Rhaenys was happy to pet her cat, brushing slim fingers over dark fur. As to what was the source of the incredible gift that was the black Balerion, the King had never been exactly sure. He just knew that one day his daughter came in cradling a swarthy babe with two rectangular ears and too-sharp claws.

Reaching over the girl and her cat, Rhaegar took a blood orange and broke it into pieces. Rhaenys always eager for a treat accepted the proffered morsel with all the grace a child her age could muster. "Careful, Princess. If you bite off my fingers, I might have to seek revenge."

Her eyes widened comically, but she still scrapped his finger with her tiny teeth. Balerion jumped off of his mistress, and scurried away, slinking under the nearest object that could offer shelter. Rhaegar used one arm to hold the girl where she was while the other one was utilised for a greater cause. Now, if he remembered correctly, his little Princess was easy to get a smile out of.

Even a laugh was no tricky matter. Rhaegar used the oldest trick in the book. It seemed his fingers could do more than write beautifully and feed her sweet morsels of food, or so Rhaenys found when her knight in shining armour turned traitor and elicited from her peels of laughter which no doubt made Balerion scratch at the door in a poor attempt to escape the room. Alas, she had to face the music, for the melody had been of her own making.

"No!" she screeched gleefully, fighting against the arm holding her. "No more, no more!"

"You admit defeat?" Rhaegar spoke over her subsiding laughter. Instinctively he brushed back a strand of hair that had flown from its rightful place.

"This is not fair," she whined softly, still trying to break his hold. But when she felt his fingers start moving again, she promptly gave in. "I yield!" Her frown was not long to stay however, for Rhaegar assuaged the sting of her loss with another tasty treat, and set her on her own two feet.

His timing had been perfect for in the next moment her Septa came in, and the smile on her face faded. "Come child," said the generously rounded woman, holding her hand out. "You must allow His Highness to attend more important matters now."

Biting her lip, Rhaenys looked at her father with eyes big and round. But it seemed that no help was to be had from him. Rhaegar bent over slightly and kissed her forehead, then her cheeks. "Off with you then. Go and play outside. It is such a lovely day."

"Will I see you later, father?" she asked timidly, her small hands catching in the fine silk of his tunic.

"Your Highness," the Septa corrected her, earning herself an angry glare from the child. "Address His Highness properly, child."

"We shall see," Rhaegar replied. He did not take note of the disappointed small face or the pouty lips, for his own problems had started piling, and now that he was so close to tackling them, his daughter's presence proved a distraction.

"Very well, Your Highness," the child groused unhappily. She gave a stiff curtsy and hurried out the door, leaving behind a bewildered Septa and a sighing Rhaegar.

This was also one on the many reasons a mother would soothe the poor child. She needed someone who would be capable of spending time with her without having to divide their attention between her and whatever other work required said attention. He nodded the Septa away.

Septas, in particular the Septa looking after his daughter, were valuable. Of course she instructed the Princess, giving her all the knowledge she would ever need. But it was not enough. Children also needed a loving hand, a gentle smile. He knew that. Having grown with a distant father and a mother fending off her own demons, trying her best to survive in difficult circumstances, he was well-aware that even the brightest septas, septons and maesters of the age could not fill that void.

But in the light of current events, his daughter needed only to exercise a little more of her patience. No doubt she would feel better for it once she had a comforting mother to wrap her in her arms.

Rhaegar removed the paper on which his daughter had conducted her experiments. He needed to concentrate if he did intend to see his daughter later. There were just so many things to do and so little time he could spend thinking them over.

And the tourney on top of it all. It was of his own making, Rhaegar knew that well enough. But even so, there were times when he wished for a few moments of peace and quiet. As King he could not have that. A pity. Truly. Even more so as he had never asked for the crown. He could not help being born into the inheritance.

* * *

 

"I insist that you do not quarrel," Lyanna growled, her fingers digging into Robert's arm. But those blue eyes had turned thunderous, and she feared that there would be no stopping him.

Stevron Frey, on the other hand, did not seem quite so decided upon battle. "Lord Baratheon, perhaps we should find an amiable solution."

"Pox on it!" Robert cursed. "Damned Freys. If you can't handle your sword, boy, then don't wag you tail at me."

"Robert!" Lyanna chided. "You are scaring the child."Such an intervention earned her Robert's ire as well. Not that Lyanna much cared for his good opinion as it were, but she would prefer to make it to King's landing in one piece. Of course, had the man been strong enough a fighter to defeat Robert, she would have gladly allowed the fight. As it was, Lyanna did not wish to carry the burden of a man's death on her conscience.

Not one for soft words, Robert snapped at her in reply. "If you do not bite that tongue of yours, I will not hesitate to discipline you like your father has not yet done. I am Lord, and you, my Lady. Do not force me."

Seemingly thankful for the distraction she provided Stevron bowed to Robert and tried to convince him of the wisdom of Lyanna's words. "Come now, Lord Baratheon. My sister is of delicate constitution. Surely, you would take pity of such young a girl and not frighten her further."

Tyta Frey clutched the reins of her brother's horse, her slight frame trembling, but her eyes burned. She was younger than Lyanna, not by much, but enough to see that she was a maiden not yet flowered, and a skittish little thing by the looks of her. All men seemed to frighten her. Lyanna could not blame her for those reactions. Robert frightened her most of the time.

Stepping away from her enraged husband, Lyanna trudged forwards, making her way to the girl's side. She took her by the shoulders."Now, now, Lady Tyta, there is no need to tremble so. Would you not like to ride with me in the wheelhouse? I find that your company appeals to me." She then glanced to the Lord Frey present. "I beseech you, my lord, allow me this small favour."

"Well, if Lord Baratheon has no objections." Stevron dared a look and was very surprised by the change in Robert, as would most people, Lyanna assumed.

One of the very vexing habits of the man's was to be as changeable as the weather. One moment he was cool and collected, the next he raged to the heavens and back, and then he smiled as if nothing had happened. Robert busied himself with knocking the air out of the young Lord Frey with a well-placed slap to his back.

The matters were settled easier than Lyanna had anticipated. Tyta seemed grateful. The moment they entered the wheelhouse she burst into tears. "I thank you, my lady. I thought he would kill my brother, your lord husband." Her sobs were not commented upon. Old Nan kept quiet, stitching away, as Renly slept off what they discovered to be a strange ailment involving moving wheelhouses , and Alys had elected to ride at the back of the party that day.

Lyanna had forgone the pleasure of riding for a more simple gratification, that of not exchanging more than the necessary pleasantries with Roberts. As it happened, Tyta's presence was a comfort and a blessing. She was a sweet girl, and once her tears had run dry she even gained some courage.

"You are Lord Stark's daughter, are you not, my lady?" she asked in a small kind of voice, as if she feared of attracting something unpleasant by being too loud.

"Lyanna will suffice, child, and yes I am" the young woman replied, her voice of a surer brand. She gave her guest a sharp smile, not unkind in nature, but not meek by any measure. Something about Tyta put her at ease.

Sniffling, the girl bowed her head. "Tyta is my given name. I would much prefer to be called that."

"Oh, look at the two of you," Nan commented. "How young, how beautiful, how fresh. These fruits do not keep." The warning in her tone made Lyanna threw her a suspicious look, while Tyta just seemed baffled.

"Nan, do not scare young Tyta. I will have no nonsense of you." Why ever did she feel the need to defend the child, Lyanna did not know. But this girl put her in the mind of a colt yet afraid of even a passing shadow. She reminded Lyanna of herself in a strange way. "Do not mind her, Tyta."

"Ah, but do mind," the crone disagreed with practised ease. Her gravelly voice penetrating deep into her audience's ears. "When the storm comes, take care that it does not knock you off your perch."

"Nonsense," Lyanna murmured in Tyta's ears and felt a sense of triumph at the younger's giggle. "You must learn to take my Nan's words with a good dose of humour. She should have gone with the mummers."

"Girl, the North is no place for those mummers," Old Nan replied. Her hearing was still sharp when she chose to employ it. The problem was that most of the time her frailty served as the better alternative. "You would do best to heed my words."

Tyta leaned her head in deference. She had not yet grown used to having the crone around. If Lyanna had any say in it, the girl would soon learn to make light of all those terrible, dreadful stories her Nan was so fond of. She did like the defiant set of the girl's mouth. Much like her, indeed.

And here she had been thinking with dread that Robert would force her to ride with him. The journey was not exactly short, and he would have had ample time to order her on a horse. But now, thank the gods, he could not do so. For he was to keep Stevron's company, while she would get better acquainted with the young Frey girl. To think that she might a few days in which no more than ten words would be spoken between husband and wife.

Her joy was cut short in a rather abrupt manner when she realised exactly the nature of her thoughts. One's life must seem very bleak if she took such joy in knowing her own husband would not speak to her much for a period of time. Did she truly loath Robert that much, that even a short exchange between them was a burden? She considered the question with utmost care. She tried to be objective, she did. But there was nothing for it but to conclude that her displeasure for Robert was an ever growing monster fed by his behaviour and the improprieties she witnessed on a daily basis in his company. It was not very kind of her, Lyanna supposed, but she was not about to change her mind.

"Have you ever been to King's Landing before?" Lyanna asked, suddenly excited at the prospect of conversing with someone so close to her own age.

"Not once," Tyta answered. "But Lythene, one of my older sisters, insists that it is the most wonderful place, and that I am the luckiest girl that father allowed me to go there. You see, she is to be married shortly, and could not come herself."

"Won't she miss your presence at her wedding?" Lyanna bit the inside of her cheek. Walder Frey had many children, perhaps sparing one daughter had been no hardship to him.

"Oh, no!" Tyta exclaimed. "Lythene and I never quite got along. And she has my sister Morya in any case. They were always very close to one another."

It would be unseemly to ask whether they were full sister or not. And besides Lyanna could not think it mattered. She had seen that blood ties meant little in this world of theirs. Perhaps friendship was more valuable to have, and better suited to force away the loneliness that lingered.

"I'm afraid unity is not the term to best describe my family." The blush on Tyta's face as she said the words elicited a small smile from her hostess.

"You come from a large family. Where there are many it is quite natural for dissention to follow," Lyanna assured her. Even among her siblings, all things considered, there had been occasional quarrels.

"Nor is large the word I would use for my family," Tyta said after a moment of silence. "They are rather like a small army that must always be fed and tended to. I fear my father may find his halls overrun."

And that was Walder Frey. The man's virility was somewhat of a legend. That and the fact that he changed wives like one changed worn boots. Considering that her young companion might not appreciate the correlation, Lyanna held that to herself. Yet she did enjoy the wit Tyta exhibited.

"Army indeed," she agreed with a wry curl of her full lips. How could one yield so many children? That man must have some sort of charm placed upon him. "Yet only you and Stevron chose to make for King's Landing."

"Nay," the girl denied. "We were simply faster than the rest of them."

Lyanna had noticed another horse beside Steveron's. "Do you ride?"

"Aye, but poorly so. My father, you can imagine, never had the time to teach me properly, and my brothers were more inclined to mock than to help." Her face reddened as if she was ashamed of her admittance.

"No worries. King's Landing is bound to have some patches of land we may improve your skills upon," Lyanna joked lightly. "But then I find I must ask, how did you journey so fast?"

"Stevron led my horse. I only needed to not fall out of my saddle." And that second admittance made it so very easy to find amusement in the situation. Tyta laughed, her arms crossing over her stomach. She did not mind Lyanna finding the hilarity in it, for she could see that the lady was not unkind. "I have heard that you are an excellent rider."

"Rumours, those. I am good on a horse, but I am sure we can find better riders than me." She took Tyta's hand in her own. "But if you would like, I could do my best to impart some of my skills."

The girl looked as if she'd offered her the stars and not simply a few riding lessons. Lyanna could not claim she was doing it from the goodness of her heart, for her intentions were not without any personal interest. By agreeing to teach the girl, she could extricate herself from any plans her lord might have made for her. After all, once she had given her word, it would not be honourable to ignore it.

Tyta's quick and keen acceptance might have stemmed from the fact that as a child in a family of many more, she had felt neglected. Lyanna could only imagine. But she did truly enjoy her presence. And she thought that it would do her good. For the both of them actually. A true friend. Lyanna had need of that. Someone who understood her; and who better than a charming girl of her own age and of similar disposition. Indeed, she would serve most nicely, Lyanna decided.

King's Landing. A sense of nostalgia swept over her. Lyanna did wish she could have stopped the feeling rising in her breast. Much alike to King's Landing, Winterfell was an important place in her homelands. A capital of sorts. She did do wish to find some way of loosing Robert in the wide city.

Her father's promise rang in her mind. He would help. He would make it so that she never had to lay eyes on the man again. Lyanna had to believe that in the end her father would save her. The prospect of sharing a life with Robert weighted heavy on her mind. She did not want that. Not for herself, not even for her worst enemy. Though Lyanna could hardly speak of enemies. She had none.

Robert Baratheon, the bane of her existence. If she could only close her eyes, and make him disappear. That wretch. How could he look her in the eyes and not see than she desired to marry him no more than she wanted to kiss a poisonous snake.

"Rumours are enough for me," Tyta whispered, reclining against the cushions. "Especially when I have had the pleasure of meeting you in person."

* * *

 

King's Landing was everything and nothing like Lyanna had expected. The architecture was something one could not help but appreciate. Or at least Baelor's Sept gave the two women that impression. It was to be admired, looked at with appropriate awe and wonder. Probably one of the few monuments that deserved the attention it garnered; an impressive giant built out of marble, white as the bark of her weirwood trees, and crystal, with seven towers that seemed to breach the heavens with their pointy ends. Lyanna had heard it said that each tower had a bell and that they only rung together on special occasions.

But no matter the beauty of the holiest of Septs, Lyanna could not deny the stench turned her stomach. King's Landing was heavily populated from what she understood. The great number of living souls crammed together produced the smell, no doubt. And there was not much to be said for the cleanliness of the streets. However the surroundings of Baelor's Sept were cleaner than the extremities of the city.

"Would you like to visit the Sept?" Robert asked, as they stopped to admire the monster of a building. "Every Targaryen King and Crown Prince has been wedded here since it was built."

Lyanna nodded stiffly. "What say you, Lady Frey. Would you like to join me?" Tyta was happy enough to nod her answer and gather the bulk of her skirts in one hand in order to exit the wheelhouse intact.

They walked arm in arm to the entrance, Robert and Stevron a few paces in front of them. Together they marvelled at the globes of leaded coloured glass and the stained glass windows. The dome came to life as light played on its glass, gold and crystal. The seven altars reminded one of the seven aspects of divinity. Towering statues, seven in number, stood in a circle.

The Father was a tall bearded man, holding a pair of scales for better judging of the souls. There was a certain strength about him. Not a bulky sort like Robert, but rather a subtle power which held one bound and waiting. The Mother was portrayed as a smiling woman with a babe in her arms. She sported a full figure, soft and rounded, a sign of fertility and motherhood. Despite the whiteness of her marble skin there was warmth to her smile which Lyanna could not help but mirror. The Warrior wore his battle armour and held a long sword with firm fingers. His features were hidden under his helm, but Lyanna rather imagined him as having Robert's features and battle lust. All gods were to be respected and feared, but not necessarily liked. She turned to the Maiden, young and pretty, with flowers in her arms. She was of slighter built than the Mother, but just as tall and twice as pretty. The Smith held his hammer and surveyed his work proudly. There was an art to emotion as well. Following the Smith, stood, slightly stooped, the Crone. Her cloaked figure made it impossible to make out her features, only a white hand greeted the light, holding a lantern. The last was the Stranger, feared by all. His was the only statue not of white marble, but of jet-black material. The light did not touch the surface of the cloaked figure that showed no signs of being anthropomorphic but the outline of his body.

"Are they not marvellous?" Tyta asked, a whisper against her cheek, as they knelt to the altar of the Maiden. It was only appropriate.

Despite the fact that her gods were of the old, Lyanna found some comfort in the beautiful face of the Maiden. Prayers would not save her from Robert for long though. So instead she asked for protection and for her father to come soon for her.

The return to the wheelhouse found Lyanna in good spirits. The Sept was a thing of beauty, she had to agree. But her gods were still the ones she worshipped. "Where shall you be staying, my dear?"

"The Maidenvault is used to hold the unmarried visitors of the Red Keep. Or so my sisters told me last I asked." Tyta seemed excited at the prospect. Lyanna wondered how she might escape Robert should they be given an apartment, but as it was not customary for Lord and Lady to share a room, they would probably be given separate rooms.

The Red Keep loomed before them soon enough. Lyanna thought it was not bigger than Storm's End but it looked more imposing all the same. It was made of pale red stone, hence its name. It boasted seven drum-towers, impressive both in size and breadth. What would the city look like seem from up there, Lyanna wondered as they neared the gates and she lost sight of all towers but the one closest to them.

Since many lords and ladies made their way into the Red Keep as of late, servants were prepared to greet them. Lyanna took in the clean skin and slightly prod look on the face of the maid assigned to care for her needs during her stay. Robert barely managed to protest as she was told that rooms in the women's quarters had been prepared for her.

"It is the word of our King. He wants the men in their best form at the tourney," the manservant explained, his young face scrunching with worry.

"Then we shall obey," Lyanna assured the pale faced man, who was by his looks a few years older than her. "His Majesty has commanded, my lord. I shall see you later no doubt."

Her dismissal brooked no arguments. Lyanna picked up her skirts, so the hem would not end up brushing all the dust left behind by carriages and horses. The maid in her service and Alys gathered the train. Old Nan walked behind them, complaining of stiff joints and long journeys. Lyanna simply gave the old woman a slight smile and promised her a cup of ale to take some of the pain. Nan was placated with the offering, enough to turn her voice down into a slow murmur.

The sight of his daughter and her companion had Rickard Stark sigh in relief. Her normally straight, flowing hair had been pinned up in braids with combs and a golden net. She looked well, smiling at the young girl to her right as two women carefully protected her train.

* * *

 

He could not quite reconcile this vision with the daughter who had cried for full days and refused food in hopes of making him change his mind. He had loved her dark hair billowing about her. She looked much like her mother in those instances. Now she looked a lady of the South.

"My daughter," he greeted her, walking towards both ladies who stopped to bow at him. Rickard took her face between his hands and kissed both her cheeks. She hadn't lost the scent of the North yet. He could still smell the snow in her cold in her hair. For a moment he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and spin her around. He had missed her.

"My lord father," she replied. If her voice wasn't quite as warm as he had expected of her, Rickard remembered what the hostility had been born of. "May I present to you Lady Tyta Frey, daughter of Lord Walder Frey."

"Lady Frey." Rickard took her slightly raised hand and ghosted a kiss atop her fingers, curt and polite, without any warmth. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My dear daughter, may I visit with you at a later time?"

"To be sure, father, I shall await your visit. Tyta, do you mind if I linger awhile longer. I have not seen my father is a rather long time." She dismissed the servants about her with a nod, and smiled when Tyta promised to find her when time came for them to sup.

"Take a walk with me, Lyanna. The gardens are lovely this time of the year." He offered his arm to her. She took it without hesitation and they walked in silence. It was not uncomfortable. The familiar weight of a woman leaning into him made him think of his late wife.

He had not lied. The flowers were in bloom and their fragrant scent permeated every corner of the gardens. The colourful petals stretched n hopes of catching a drop of light and a smidge of warmth. The buds rested in the shades. Which were more magnificent? Rickard could not make up his mind. It was a pity blue roses did not grow in such a climate. There was a variety of red, salmon, and golden roses, but not blue.

Lyanna leaned her face close to a tall bush of bright red flowers which he did not know the name of. "They are so colourful," she noted, her finger touching a soft petal. The whole garden was bathed in all the colours imaginable. Rickard said nothing, content to allow her the time she needed for now. "I have received your letter."

"Something else of importance has transpired. I fear it involves your brother Brandon." He could feel her tense, so Rickard patted her hand gently. "He has it in his head to marry Barbrey Ryswell."

Not one to deny her father's intellect was superior to many others, Lyanna did, on the other hand, think that he had no business as a matchmaker. What did it matter if Brandon took the Ryswell girl to wife or not? So long as he was happy. "My brother deserves the life he wishes for."

"Aye, but your brother is promised to Catelyn Tully. They will not simply be cast aside," Rickard explained. "What am I to do with this wayward son of mine?"

"Lock him in his rooms until good Lady Catelyn comes for him," she answered wryly, but not without humour. "Why do you tell me this?" If it had been any other of her brothers she might have had a hope at talking to them, but Brandon, she was not so sure she could get through to him. He was by far the most reckless of them all, and rues to him had always been meant to be broken.

"Because you could help him, should you will it. And even help yourself." It was a gift of her father's to leave her baffled. "Or is it that you have already given your heart to that husband of yours?"

"I pleaded with you not to give me to him. I begged you. I swore that I would take any other man but him if you spared me." Her eyes flashed coldly. "If anyone is to shoulder the blame here, it is not me."

"Are you still a maiden? Answer me truthfully." His own eyes had turned the colour of steel. "If he has not touched you, the two of you may yet part amiably." Robert would refuse. Lyanna was sure of that. The man was enamoured enough with her that it mattered very little what her wishes were. "What sort of man is he?"

"Determined and foolishly fearless," Lyanna replied after considering the question for a short time. "He will not set me free." Her warning made her father smile, a wolfish grin of sorts.

"Even better that he does not agree. I have little doubt I shall see you in the coming days. Take care of yourself and keep away from Baratheon." He kissed her forehead and bid her a good day, leaving her in the gardens.

As if in a stupor, Lyanna walked to a bench and sat down. Her father had more or less promised that should Robert not allow her to go free, he would rid him of something far more valuable than his wife. How did she feel about that? For a second shame filled her. The potential death of her husband did not even bother her. What sort of person was she, to be this indifferent? Lyanna covered her face with her hands, frightened by feelings and thoughts that were her own.

"Why are you crying?" a small voice asked, startling Lyanna out of her thoughts. She looked up to see a dark haired child with a black cat in her arms. The girl regarded her curiously, her green dress dusted, the golden hems a little torn. "Are you hurt?"

Shaking her head, Lyanna wiped her tears away, feeling foolish. "I am fine, little lady. Thank you for asking though." The girl beamed at her. Lyanna was sure her face was still slightly flushed, as it always became when she was distressed.

"Here," she pushed the cat in Lyanna's lap, and she instinctively caught the pet fearing it would run and the girl would be upset. "You can pet him. I promise it will make everything better." The child's face was a serious as Ned's face when they were little.

To demonstrate she reached for the cat and stroked the black fur back and forth. Lyanna decided to please her and brushed the feline too. "Does he have a name?" It felt nice, the soft fur under her fingers.

"Balerion." Dark eyes watched her intently. "He is not very fearsome though, is he?"

She smiled. "And does his pretty mistress have a name?" Lyanna tried to give the girl an encouraging smile. and wondered if she was doing a good job of it or if it looked like a grimace.

Biting her lip the girl shook her head. "If I tell you'll no longer want to play with me." She frowned. "It happens every time." The corners of her mouth dragged downwards.

"How can that be? You're such a sweet child." Still she shook her head. "Fine, I swear by the old gods and the new that I will still play with you after you tell me my name." Poor darling. She was probably some lord's natural born daughter and the other looked down on her for that. "I'm Lyanna Stark," she said before she was able to think better.

Eyes lighting up, the little girl grabbed Lyanna's knees so suddenly that Balerion, startled by the sudden movement and the high-pitched sound of joy, jumped from Lyanna's lap and ran somewhere into the bushes. "You promised," she reminded Lyanna one more time before taking a deep breath. "Rhaenys Targaryen of House Targaryen," she said and curtsied in a clumsy manner, not unexpected for a child.

The shock registered first. But Lyanna had not been raised as badly as that. She climbed to her feet and fell in a curtsy of her own. Years of practicing made her almost naturally graceful. "Forgive me, I did not realiseâ€¦"

"No! You promised," the Princess yelled stamping her foot on the ground. "You promised," she whined.

"Have I left your company?" Lyanna asked, hoping to calm the child. Rhaenys gave her a pointed look. "I swore an oath, my Princess. To prove I am in earnest, let us play a game. Whichever, of your choosing."

Seeming to consider those words, Rhaenys stepped closer to Lyanna and grabbed two fistfuls of her skirts. Lyanna hesitated a moment but she gathered her courage enough to stroke the top of the child's head. A bird in a cage, Lyanna thought absently. Even with all the benefits of being the Princess, this child only wanted someone to be close to her. Surrounded by people, but utterly alone. Exactly like Lyanna in Robert's home. They were alike in their different sorrows.

"Eye spy," Rhaenys said suddenly, looking up at Lyanna with a smile. "Let us play that game." Her fingers released their grip on her dress, and Lyanna carefully brushed the creases away with one hand, offering the other to the girl to hold when she saw Rhaenys was preparing to remove them somewhere else.

Had she ever been like this, Lyanna wondered, walking behind the now excited girl. Nay, if she remembered it well. Benjen had not allowed her to sink into despair, not even after their mother's death. She had to care for him, and that had taken up too much time for her to give herself over to the sadness. It had helped, of course, that Benjen dealt easier with his own grief. Lyanna had been more attached to her mother, having spent so much time in the woman's company. She had taught Lyanna how to sew and paint, although her talent for both was limited.

Princess Rhaenys had lost her mother too soon to know her. Lyanna was willing to bet the poor dear did not even remember the sound of her voice. How did one fill such an emptiness? With sweets and present and septas and servant? Did that work? "Where are you taking us?"

"To the perfect place. They won't find us there. Only father and I know of it." As she said those words they passed a small artificial lake, a few fish leaping about. The gardens seemed to hold no interest to the Princess, but Lyanna accounted that to daily walks in the place. For herself it was all wonderful, a paradise of sort that she could only enjoy for a brief spell before returning to her inferno.

No matter, she would enjoy the present, for who knew what the future brought. Lyanna picked Rhaenys up in her arms, for a second staggering under her weight. She helped the Princess up to her place of choice and sat at her feet on a boulder until the child urged her up. "What do you see?" Lyanna asked, their game at a start.

"I see something white!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

Pursing her lips, Lyanna looked around her trying to figure out what Rhaenys had seen. "Is it the clouds?" The answer was a quick shake of the head. Not the clouds then. "Is it the apple blossoms?" Rhaenys denied. "I know, I know, it is that white pigeon there, isn't it?"

"Nay, 'tis no pigeon," Rhaenys giggled. "Try again."

"I do not know. Is it those white leaves?" Lyanna was afraid she would never guess. "I simply cannot tell, my Princess. You have outwitted me. Won't you be merciful and tell what it is?"

"That tiny baby bird," Rhaenys pointed to a small bundle of twigs and dried grass nestled between some branches up high. Indeed, a little white bird twittered cheerfully up there.

* * *

 

Cersei Lannister had many attributes. She was beautiful beyond a shadow of doubt, she was clever and witty. Rhaegar would go so far as to say she was politically gifted, but no matter her graces, he would never make a queen out of her. As it was, she found her way in his intimate presence all too often.

At the moment, Cersei was busy inspecting his harp, wilfully ignoring the amused looks Arthur sent her way. His friend did enjoy riling her. "My lady, won't you play something for us?" Arthur asked, knowing fully well what her answer would be.

She was passable with the flute, but Cersei could not wield the harp and even worse for her voice when she sang. If she spoke it was almost pleasant. But when she was quiet and away, then Rhaegar was truly happiest.

"I shan't," Cersei answered, narrowing green eyes at the man. Her brazen attitude earned her a simple flick of Dayne's hand."I am here to bring His Majesty a message."

Oh, what desperation made out of men! Rhaegar would have laughed had it been his usual way of dealing with his court. "The Lord Hand goes too far in this." Tywin Lannister had overstepped himself. For the past few years, Rhaegar had put up with the man's daughter and her flirtations, knowing that his Hand thought to wed her into the royal family. Yet he had made it clear he had no wish to take her to wife. "My lady, should your father have any more messages for me, he is welcomed to give them through one of the servants. Or come himself, if needs must. I would not have you endangering yourself, running through the castle like this."

The young woman whirled around, her face white as a ghost's. She looked at him as if he had just delivered her a blow, one painful enough to bring tears to her eyes. But Rhaegar would not allow himself to be moved. Cersei Lannister needed to learn that he was King and his word was law. "Arthur, see the lady to the women's quarter." She could drive anyone insane, that stubborn woman. "You are dismissed," he said at last, turning his attention back to the document on his desk. This would be the final one he signed before going to see Rgaenys.

Arthur, not a man to shy away from his duties, offered the young lady his hand, preparing some barbs to make their journey entertaining. "You mustn't look so forlorn, my lady. That is just the way Kings show affection," he told her as they walked down the hall.

"When I find myself in need of advice from an insolent Dornish lord, I shall ask you to speak. Until then, pray be gallant and spare me," she hissed back at him, nails digging into his arm. She was not pleased to see a smile blooming on his face.

"Insolent Dornish lord? I'm afraid you are on the wrong arm then. Prince Oberyn Martell is the one you seek." He did so enjoy vexing her. Lord Tywin's daughter lacked the one thing Rhaegar enjoyed in women. And she did not even know it.

Poor Cersei Lannister, chasing a man she could not hope to catch the eye of as something for serious than a few moments of flirtation. Arthur felt a wave of sympathy crash into him, until he remembered that walls had ears â€“ and occasionally eyes. One day she would understand that Rhaegar knew his subjects better than they thought. Arthur, by virtue of being a close friend, often found out more than he would like to know about some peers of the realm.

"Have a care, Lord Dayne." Cersei's sneers held a certain sort of cruelty. What a wonder she would be in ten year's time. "The Lion does not take to being teased."

Lannisters were ever fond of saying which included lions. If Arthur went around talking about falling stars, Rhaegar would probably have him examined by the Grand Maester just to be sure his visits to the brothels hadn't landed him in real trouble. But however bad lions took to teasing, lords were even worse when little impertinent children thought themselves above them.

Lilac eyes glazed over, a coolness taking over. "I believe our road ends here." They stood before a statue of the Maiden. "A word of advice, my lady. A lion may still burn." With that he turned around and left behind a fuming young lady.

Perhaps it was dangerous for him too to take such liberties, but everyone had their limits. If Tywin Lannister wanted to force the King's hand, he would find himself back on his Rock, with no position to speak of and without an heir.

It sometimes happened that the Kingsguard took new knights in, and as Arthur had heard Jaime Lannister was shaping up to be quite a good one. And everyone knew he held his second son in disdain. A pity that, for they whispered that Tyrion Lannister was as witty as he was small, and Dayne recalled him being rather small.

Politics made his head ache. Arthur decided against going back to Rhaegar. No doubt the King would see himself free of his work and visit little Rhaenys. It had always been his deepest regret, that his work took him so much away from his daughter.

Elia would have been delighted to know the depth of the King's feelings for the Princess. "Do you know, Elia, I should have listened and found a wife of my own."

Rhaegar would allow him to take to wife any woman he wanted, and his place on the Small Council would ensure that fathers threw their daughters his way. Yet Arthur had never felt he wanted any of them for more than a brief spell. Elia had been the only one, and she had never been his to have and to hold, for all Rhaegar turned a blind eye to his romancing of the Queen. But she had never allowed him more than a kiss to her palm. Such had been she, Rhaegar's first wife.

* * *

 

"There now," Tyta said, happily applying the last of the stitches to her piece of embroidery. She looked at her work in the light coming from the window. It was pleasing. "What think you of this, Lyanna?" she asked the young woman sitting next to her.

Busy with her own embroidery, Lyanna glanced. "Oh, it's beautiful!" She beamed at the girl. "I wish I had half your talent in the tip of my finger." Her own work was passable, but nothing extraordinary. An appropriate trinity of frost-blue roses decorated the white material, in a way that spoke of care and attention, but not fondness.

Tyta's piece showed a lovely gray wolf on a darker cloths, almost pitch black. The eyes were a brilliant golden colour, the details very fine indeed. "I realised I have not had the opportunity to properly thank you, my friend. So I have made this for you. I hope you accept it."

"You shouldn't have," Lyanna said with pleasure, a rosy blush colouring her cheeks. Many gifts have found their way into her hands over the years. Dolls, dresses, combs and the occasional piece of jewellery; all have at some point been offered to her to placate, to impress, to please, to persuade. If she had ever believed them to be anything but an attempt to cloud her judgement, Lyanna did not rightly remember. Yet from a fairly young age she had learned to look upon them with suspicion. Thought it pleased her to be paid attention to. She fingered the heavy material. "It is lovely." She looked at her own work. "I wish I had something better to give to you, but I'm afraid I am not a talent with the needle."

"You need not trouble yourself," the other protested, her hands lifting in the air to strengthen her words. "I have already extracted a promise of horse riding instructions. But in the end Lyanna prevailed and she was forced to accept the blue roses. "If you insist, I shall be happy to hand this in my room."

"I should be equally happy if you tossed it in some chest and never had to look upon it again," the she-wolf joked. "Perhaps if the good weather holds, we shall have out first lesson on this very day. Would that suit you?"

"Very much indeed," Tyta agreed enthusiastically. Then, as if remembering something unpleasant, she frowned. "I have no clothes fitting for such an exploit," she explained, her shoulders dropping.

Just as Lyanna was about to tell her she had some garments that had been her second-oldest brother's, the door opened with a loud bang. Other women in the room grasped and glared at the intruder. Lyanna naturally turned to see who had dared break the King's hospitality by breaking in the women's sanctuary. Unfortunately for her, she was met with the image of her furious husband, red-faced and fuming. He stood there in the doorway, fixing her with a glare that could have frozen a whole sea. Instinctively her hand gripped Tyta's.

Robert stepped over the threshold, deaf to the murmur of disapproval the other ladies produced. He did not even have the decency to say a word to the ones he pushed out of his way. Reaching Lyanna, he grabbed her by the shoulder. "Get up," he ordered, voice reverberating through the room. He had not yelled, but Lyanna was frozen in her place all the same. Fear paralysed her. "Have you gone deaf!" he roared, hauling he r to her feet. When she refused to move still, he threw her over his shoulder like one would a sack of grain.

Breaking through her panic at last, Lyanna yelled back to Tyta, "Find my father, Lady Tyta! I beg you, make haste!" She could not fathom what the brute would do to her; he was in such a temper.

Still in her chair, Tyta took a few moments to realise what had happened. Snapping out of her stupor, she dashed to her feet, and ran after them. But her short legs could not keep up well with Lord Baratheon's wide steps. "Hold on, my lady. I shall be as quick as I can," she whispered, finally falling behind.

Tearing herself away from the image of Lyanna being stolen by her brutish husband, Tyta scrambled down to the inner court, where she knew the men to be. It was Stevron she found first, but the state she was in did not allow for a clear explanation, Her brother seeing that the girl kept asking for Lord Stark was obliged to see her to where the Warden of The North had seated himself at the shadow of a tall tree, deep in conversation with Arthur Dayne and a man whose name Stevron could not recall.

"Lord Stark, forgive the interruption," Stevron cleared his throat, and all eyes turned to him and his sister. He had half expected Tyta to hide behind him, but her anxiety had made her uninhibited. She stepped before him and bowed, but did not wait for the lord's leave to speak.

"Your daughter had been taken," she said without preamble. Small hands crossed over her lap, fingers wringing nervously. "He burst and grabbed her before any one us could stop him, my lord. She begged me to come and find you. Please, my lord, she was frightened, and I admit the look in Lord Baratheon's eyes did not promise lenience." She had spoken much and fast, her breath had left her. Tyta dragged air in her lungs, her throat burning.

Rickard Stark paled. "That whoreson!" he cursed, uncaring of who might hear him. "Begging your pardon, my lady." He had broken the marriage of his daughter to the man, stating that as their union was unconsummated he stood to lose nothing. In fact, he had not even paid her bridal price. It stood to reason he would not make a fuss and the High Septon would annul the marriage. "My lady, I thank you for being so quick on this. Lord Dayne, I trust this proves my earlier point.

Lord Dayne looked at the pallid little creature trembling in front of her audience. "Indeed, Lord Stark." But he would conduct an investigation of his own. "Lord Frey, may I have a few words with your sister?" Visibly surprised, Stevron Frey murmured a soft agreement. "Come then, child. Sit by me." Her brother had to push the poor lamb towards him. Turning his head to a servant he called for a glass of wine to be brought.

The dainty maiden had been lowered to her knees, and her dress fluffed around her. It was such an odd piece, yet it did its job of covering her legs. Tyta pulled on the hem. Her eyes stung and her heart was still beating loudly. She felt her head might split in two.

"There, there, pet," Arthur consoled the young girl gently. "You need not work yourself into a frenzy. I only need to know a few more details, so I may help the good Lady Lyanna." He would try his best to spare her tender feelings.

Dark brown eyes looked at him hopefully. "My lord." There was something in her gaze, Arthur thought. But it was then that the drink arrives and whatever contact was between them broke. Taking the proffered cup, he passed it in the female's hands. Her eyes widened almost comically. "I do not drink, my lord. Never."

"Just a few sips, child. You will feel better," he assured her. Seeming to trust his words, she drank a mouthful, and her nose scrunched in a most adorable gesture. "You do not like wine?"

"Ale is worse," was her reply.

"Has Lady Lyanna ever spoken to you of herself?" he asked. Arthur hoped that in her innocence the pretty chit would let slip the information he needed. Rickard Stark could swear up and down that his daughter was untouched, but other proof was needed too.

"I have not knows her long, my lord," Tyta confided in the man for some unknown reason. She just knew that if there was anyone who could help and protect Lyanna he must be a strong man. "I know just that she is two years my senior, and has not been married long enough for her husband to endear himself to her." She lowered her gaze. "May I speak freely?"

"Please do so." Putting on the best open face he could muster, Arthur prayed it would be enough to embolden the little lady.

Leaning as close to him as she felt was proper, Tyta whispered, "I think she fears him, my lord. And I blame her not. The first I met Lord Baratheon I thought he meant to kill my brother and myself. I do not believe him to be sane, and whatever ruse he made use of in convincing my lady to wed him, I am certain it was ill-conceived."

"Ah," Arthur exclaimed in a manner so soft she might have imagined it. "I thank you for your forthrightness, Lady Tyta. You have been of much help." He lifted her hand to his lips and then picked himself up, helping her rise too. She had been most helpful, indeed. A plan had already started forming in Arthur's mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belated note, I imagine the question on everyone's mind is:  
>   
> My response is necessarily:  
>   
> And yes; my writing was actually this horrible a few years back. Shocker.


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next round of cringe. Basically I was face-palming every few paragraphs through.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"What is the meaning of this?" Lyanna yelled at Robert, hoping to convince him to put her down. "I will not be treated with such impertinence!"

"Shut that mouth of yours, woman," Robert replied tersely. He had brought in into the stables and signalled for two horses to be brought forward. "Get in that saddle."

"I will not," she refused, throwing her head back haughtily. "You have no right to command me."

In his haste to get her to cooperate, Robert did not stop to think of what the implications of forcing her to go along with him would bring to fruit. His hand came hard across her cheek, the sound of the slap ringing through the place. "Get on the horse, or I'll put you up there and break both your legs, you bitch." A rope tired her hands to the horse's bridle.

"Bastard," she hissed in return, but did nor have the courage to oppose him. Her cheek stung and her lip was split. Blood dribbled down her chin. She though to escape him when he started galloping ahead of her, yet not even he was that stupid. Robert tied her horse's reins to his own horse's.

The beasts broke into a run at the sharp blow dealt to Robert's horse. Lyanna had the presence of mind to look behind her every now and then. For a time they rode unbothered. The horses were of good stock, fast and strong. They'd been made to run. A sort of sinking feeling bloomed in the pit of her stomach. Why would he not release her? Hadn't her father offered to part with a handsome sum of money if case her released her from her vows without making a fuss of it?

When she thought all hope was lost, behind them the sound of hooves beating the ground made her whirl around. The banner of the direwolf floated in the air and behind it she could see some other banner sworn to her father. Domeric Bolton's flayed man was there, Lord Karstark's banner and the Glover's too. Relief coursed through her.

In a desperate bid to buy the riders some time, Lyanna flung herself from the saddle. Her body instinctively prepared for the crash, knowing it would bring her much pain. Yet even in her wildest dreams she could not have imagined the hellish agony upon impact. A ragged scream tore itself from her throat as her dress caught in the horse's leg and her leg came in contact with the uneven ground. Flesh tore itself on the sharp rock embedded in the road, and the muscles in her arms became rigid with tautness. Her cry of anguish prompted Robert to glance behind him. His eyes spoke of terror at the sight of her unsaddled. Her horse faltered under the effect of the impediment and her added weight.

But by the time he managed to stop his beast, Lyanna's leg was in shambles and the rope had cut deeply into her wrists.

Her vision blurred, Lyanna could barely make out the form of her husband approaching her, yet she felt him, the scent of him. "Leave me alone," she begged, reduced to tears of pain and fright. "I want my father! Leave me alone! Papa! Save me, papa!" Though she had yelled the loudest she could, the sounds were faint to her own ears, covered in the roaring of her blood. "Papa!" Luminous eyes closed, and she gave in to her exhaustion and the pull of the darkness.

His daughter's body hanging from her horse's bridle brought a wave of fury over Lord Stark. "Baratheon!" he howled, much like the wolf of his house. The sound was feral, cutting through the bones of his opponent.

Having jumped down from his horse, Robert cut the bindings and Lyanna slumped to the ground in an undignified heap. Rickard did not give him the opportunity to prepare himself. He jumped at the assailant of his daughter, sword drawn. Steel met steel, the clash repeating the chorus of any warrior's song.

He thought that all the men would scare Baratheon into submission, but it seemed his opponent was not quite so dim. He had called upon men of his own. They appeared from behind the tree line, a dozen or so, strong swordsmen. His own people joined the fray. Rickard feared for his daughter's safety. "Bolton!" he called to the young Domeric.

The boy understood without him having to elaborate, but so did Baratheon. Robert lunged for Domeric, sword coming down in an arc. Rickard juxtaposed himself between them. They fought against one another, each trying to wear the other out. Baratheon was strong, and he knew it. But Rickard was more skilled and more experienced. He feinted, and came at Robert from the other side. Though his blow was blocked, he managed to make Robert's feet unsure. With a well-placed kick he brought the younger man to his knees. Rickard was about to plunge his sword through his opponent's chest. "Vermin, how dare you lay your hands on my daughter to strike her, to bloody her face!" The words were spoken chillingly low.

"Halt!" came the cry of Barristan Selmy. "Lord Stark, stay your hand! In the name of the King!"

Taking advantage of the momentary confusion, Robert sprang to his feet and in true warrior fashion, knocked Rickard back. He dashed to his horse and climbed in the saddle despite being warned against it. He jammed his foot in the animal's flank and it could do naught but come alive under him. Some of the men gave chase after Robert and his company. They were lost in the thick concentration of trees in a matter of seconds.

"Is this your daughter?" Arthur Dayne questioned, picking in his arms the young woman that had lain forgotten on the hard ground. He looked her over, trying to assess the damage. Damn Baratheon for destroying her. She looked young enough that some would still name her child. A shudder ran along Arthur's spine. What kind of sick man would take a child to wed and bed? Her face was white, but blood ran down her chin and temple. Arthur bit back a curse. The little Frey had been right to warn them of Robert's hostility.

"Lyanna!" Rickard Stark rasped, heading towards the girl on unsteady feet. He took her from Arthur's hold. "My poor darling." Kissing her dusted forehead, Rickard steeled himself against the onslaught of sadness which overtook him. He was to blame.

Though a victor he could taste but ashes in his mouth. His sweet Lyanna. The ride to the Red Keep seemed to drag on as the horses trotted gently, but swiftly. His daughter kept loosing blood; it soaked into her dress and dripped down her leg into her father's lap as he held her. "Hold on, my little wolf." The gates could not appear fast enough.

Always a good child, Lyanna had not made it a habit to worry him or her mother when Lyarra had lived. Yet they shared a stubborn streak, the two women, and Rickard could do little but worry. Had Lyarra lived, he would not have escaped unbruised from this incident. His wife had loved her children fiercely and she would have torn any man who dared bring them harm. But Rickard had thought as a lord, not as a father, and his daughter paid the price; her small body bent, flesh mangled. Her pain registered in his breast tenfold grown. And just when he though he might crumble under its effect, the gates came in view, opened and waiting to receive them inside the safety of the keep's walls.

Lyanna was pressed in the care of a group of Maesters, their chains heavy around their necks, and the Septas accompanying them. Rickard could only watch as they took his daughter away. Lyanna had not woken up. Her scream still ringed through his eras. Resolve breaking, Rickard made to follow them.

"Lord Stark!" Arthur Dayne called him over. "You must allow the Maesters to do what they must in order to heal Lady Lyanna." He had opted to leave the girl without the protection of  a name, as he did not think it wise to pronounce Baratheon in the presence of the crazed wolf. Even so, Arthur was appalled. How could a man claim to love a woman and then put her through such pain? If Baratheon had possessed even a shred of humanity, he would have not done what he had.

"Do you have children, Lord Dayne?" Rickard asked him coldly.

"Nay," Arthur answered in an equally frosty manner. "I cannot imagine your pain, Lord Stark. But the King's orders were clear. We rescue your daughter, and then we are to speak to him. His Majesty wishes for an explanation."

"Then he can hear it from you, my lord." Rickard turned around and headed after the Maesters and their helpers. The King could wait. He would be a father first and only after a lord.

* * *

 

Rhaegar paced the floor of his office, irritation clearly written across his face. "You mean to tell me he escaped?" he demanded as the captain of the guards he had sent after the disturbed of their peace returned empty handed. "You will search every nook and cranny of the Seven Kingdoms until you have found him. And you will not return to face me unless Baratheon is chained and in your possession." Waving the man away, Rhaegar turned to glare at Arthur. "What have you done?"

"Nothing," his friend assured him. "Rhaegar, the bastard wed himself to a child. The very laws of your realm forbid it." He proceeded to name said laws. "You are a just, righteous king. Should I have turned a blind eye to the girl's misfortune?"

"You should have brought the problem to me." Slumping in his chair, the King sighed deeply. "How is Lady Lyanna?"

The existence of Lady Lyanna was brought to his attention before this incident, courtesy of his daughter. The Princess had apparently met the sweetest, most charming lady at court in the gardens. So taken had Rhaenys been with Lyanna Stark that she told her father all the games the two of them had played – some of which Rhaegar did not even know existed. He could not in good conscience turn away when he heard that she was in trouble, even more so when she had been attacked on his domain. How would he look as a King if he could not protect his subjects? Rhaegar would see this situation resolved.

"Pycelle is certain that she will make a good recovery," Arthur claimed as he too sat down.

"I am asking you how she is, Arthur. If I wanted Pycelle's opinion I would have asked him here." Rhaegar never did trust the old master. "Tell me."

"Her leg is the worst of it. The wrists will heal in a couple of months, I grant, and her lip and face in a few weeks." Different shades of violet met, conferring in silence. Arthur nodded. "As I said, 'tis her leg I worry about. That wound is not only deep, but it is also wide. An infection could kill her." Such a young woman, such a tragic death it would be.

"One of these days you will have to tell me the full story," Rhaegar said soberly. He stood from his seat and took of a heavy robe with the dragon seal on it. "But until that day, you too are responsible for the apprehension of Robert Baratheon. See that Jon Arryn names the man a wanted criminal for his deeds on this day."

And with that he left Arthur where he sat, strolling down the halls to where Lyanna Stark had been placed. Rhaegar would hear it straight from the horse's mouth, as the saying went. When he reached the room given to the injured woman, a Septa stepped out and bowed deeply to him. "What is her current state? Has she come about?"

"Yes, Your Highness, she is awake now." The star necklace at her neck dangled as she leaned forward. "The Lady is lucid and coherent, not a small feat by any means. But her spirit has been cast in the shadows. I would counsel care when approaching her, if Your Majesty would hear it."

"Be at peace, I shall not keep her long. I just wish to see her a short while." Rhaegar left the woman without. He entered the antechamber and waved away the other two Septas, shushing them with a stern glance. "You may leave and take some refreshments, I shall call you back when you are needed."

Lyanna Stark sat against the bed's headboard, her back cushioned by pillows. Her wrists, clearly visible on her lap were bandaged in wide strips of material up until her fingers. That had attracted his eyes first, being in contrast with the darkness of the sheets. His eyes rose to meets hers, and his breath left him a moment at what he witnessed. In her confusion, Lady Lyanna  must have though him an enemy for her stare spoke of loathing so strong it nearly made him stagger.

Yet it did not hold. Seeming to gain control of herself, the lady's eyes widened."Your Majesty," she greeted him first, fumbling with the sheets.

”My lady!" Rhaegar exclaimed, startling even himself. "You must not strain yourself. There is no need for a formal greeting. Stay as you are." Then her eyes softened on him. Even with a split lip and a livid cheek, she still boasted a kind of prettiness that took one by surprise.

"Your Majesty is too kind, to visit me as I am." Men, in her experience, ran from ugliness. She inclined her head in sincere recognition of his superiority.

He couldn't find a thing to say to her. "My daughter wanted to come and see you. She was distraught at the news of your misfortune." He folded his hands behind his back and watched her reaction.

One hand came to her cheek, the one not marred, and her lips formed a round shape, though it had to hurt with that cut. "You mustn't allow that, Your Highness. I would scare the little darling and I should hate that. Perhaps after the bruises have faded a bit."

"You are hardly the stuff of night terrors, my lady." Yet Rhaegar would not expose Rhaenys to the cruelty of the world yet.

"Perhaps not to a grown man," she responded, "but to a child? I dare say she is yet young to see the world through our eyes."

Rhaegar wanted to tell her she was a child herself. But gazing at her now, he could not bring himself to do it. The eyes staring back at his did not belong to a child. What had been done to her? "You marriage to Lord Baratheon, speak to me of that. And pray tell me the truth of it."

She licked her lower lip, the tongue lingering a fraction longer over the red split. "I did not wish to become wife to Robert Baratheon," she said after a moment of silent consideration. "But I suppose that does not much matter. Like any woman on my station I am bound to obey my father and his wishes. I was told I must marry, and when I attempted to change my fate, I was lodged in my rooms, the door locked." At the look of consternation of his face Lyanna broke off. "The North is a harsh place, my liege, but this practice is not only ours. I would lie if I claimed it was. Or has Your Majesty not heard of it before?"

Blinking slowly, Rhaegar fixed her with a hard stare. "Go on, my lady."

"My husband came two weeks into my captivity. He was a man on a mission, bent on wedding me. Despite my many, frequent and loud protests, I was dressed in my finery and sent before a Septon. I muddled through my vows and any man with a little brain to him could have figured out my feelings on that occasion." She stopped and looked about her. Locating the object she sought, Lyanna made to take the water pitcher.

Quicker, Rhaegar poured her a cup himself and held it to her lips. She drank without protest. "Your consent is needed for your own wedding, Lady Lyanna. If you were forced into it, then your vows would not hold before the High Septon. Unless, of course, you are a wife in deed, and well as in word."

"That I am not!" she protested fiercely. "I would have rather drowned myself in the sea." And with that – a most intimate thought brought to light in front of a virtual stranger – Lyanna allowed herself to cry. Her body convulsed with every sob. "I prayed every night that he would not come. I begged and I begged, and no one would listen. I asked my father, and I tried to obtain the help of my older brothers. But I am just a woman. I am not important enough for my voice to matter."

Bringing one arm around her tenderly, Rhaegar attempted to control his shock at her breakdown. "You do matter, my lady." His experience with grieving women was slight. He did not know if his touch would offend this girl with steely eyes and quivering lips. Her tears ran down her face, reddened skin and bruised flesh alike.

By the gods! She was just a child, and they'd married her to a man who could not understand that. It was not Baratheon's love that made him a monster – it was the violence of it Matters could not continue as they were.

Rhaegar's mind was made up.

* * *

 

Barbrey smoothed back the sleeping man's hair. The full moon illuminated the whole expanse of her room, conferring an ethereal aura to the scene. It might have been the light itself, or the very fact that the moon was full, or even the many thoughts that weighed her down, but the woman could not sleep. She shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position. Unfortunately it seemed that the gods would not give her the peace she craved. Barbrey sighed, not so much a sign of tiredness, as one of frustration

She loved the idea of Brandon, may the gods be her witnesses. But the situation they found themselves in was not what she had envisioned when he said he would talk with his father. Naturally, it was expected of the Old Wolf to put up a fight, but not to the degree he had gone to. What was the use of marrying Brandon Stark if he was stripped of his name and position? Her own father had told her to do what she must to secure the affections of this man, yet he had in mind for her the position of future Lady of Winterfell. He would not consent to her wedding a man with no title.

That brought Barbrey to her main problem. What did she do now? Brandon has risked everything for her. He had told his father of the intention to make her his wife and thus lost his position as heir. As he was of no value now, she ought to do as her father had told her and go back to the halls of her forefathers. Yet looking at Brandon, sleeping next to her, so trustingly placing his head on her chest, Barbrey found she could not follow her father's instructions. At least not without breaking her own hear in the process. Why did she have to feel this strange prickling in her breast at the thought of leaving him? She bit her lip and slipped away from his arms. Feet touched the cool floor, and Barbrey sat up. She gave a brief glance his way, but moved quickly and quietly to the window. She would write to her father and ask for his advice on this. Yet what could be done? While Brandon hadn't had her maidenhead, she was aware that her excuses would not hold much longer and she would either have to run away or be with him as a wife was with her husband. She shuddered at the though, fear and anticipation mingling inside of her. What did she want more, a high position or a man that loved her? The matter required careful consideration.

On the one hand she could run away with Brandon Stark and they would hide. The North was large – the largest of the seven kingdoms even – surely they could lose their trace somehow. She would not have a plentiful life, true, but she would have the love of a good man. They would raise their children together in a small, peaceful place and struggle from day to day in order to survive. She would never be able to see her father and sister again. While Barbrey hadn't had the luck to be born in a family that was as rich as the Starks, she had never wanted for anything. To be suddenly reduced to poverty was not a blow she could take lightly.

On the other hand, if she went back to her father, it would all be as it had been before. Her hand would be given to whatever lord was pleased to have her, and she would be the mistress of her own castle no matter its size. She would not love her husband, most probably, but she did not love Brandon either, or at least she did not think she did. Her children would be lords and ladies; she would have anything she wanted. In short she would keep the life that was so dear to her.

Somehow she could see it all more clearly out of his arms. It made sense. Perhaps they were just not meant to be. Brandon had to marry Catelyn Tully and stopping him would bring trouble not only to them two but to everyone else. Barbrey was not stupid. If he did as his father told him, he would have back his rank and it would all be forgotten. Perhaps she needn't write to her father, anyway. It would be the easiest thing to leave. She just needed to pack a few dresses and borrow some coin to get a horse. He wouldn't even know she was gone until he woke up. She edged closer to the bed and bent down over him. As time wore on she would become a memory, a distant thought. Barbrey grimaced, a distant thought indeed.

She too would forget him. After all, she would have a husband and children to care for. Everything would turn out fine in the end, because this had been madness anyway. Her father would just have to content himself with not so grand relations. Rickard Stark was not a man to be disappointed, and if it was his wish that and alliance be forged with the South, his bannermen had to bow to that. Aye, Barbrey understood politics well enough and for that reason she knew the Wolf would not yield. Hadn't he dragged his only daughter kicking and screaming at the altar? Brandon had worried over his sister ands whether she would reconcile herself with the marriage that had been forced upon her. Barbrey, being a woman herself, knew well enough that given no choice the girl would have to comply in the end. If not, who was to say what her husband would do to her. It had all started with Lyanna Stark, hadn't it? Brandon had been happy to court her and jest with her before his sister was given to Robert Baratheon. It was only after seeing the ruthlessness of his father that he was prompted to act.

He was selfish, Barbrey realised in a moment of lucidity. His sister had to submit to a man she clearly hadn't wanted to be given to, yet he would run away from his duty, because he was a man and he could. Selfish, and he did it all for her. Was it supposed to warm her heart? Barbrey thought not, but despite that she was oddly pleased. Yet his sacrifice she could not accept. Mayhap if he had shown to his sister the same sympathy he showed to his own situation, she could have been persuaded to remain by his side.

"Barbrey?" Brandon murmured, looking up at her illuminated silhouette. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," she answered hurriedly. "I was just coming back to bed." As if to prove her point she climbed atop the bed and drew the blanket over herself. She had no desire whatsoever to explain to Brandon what had kept her up.

He spread his arms invitingly and Barbrey had little choice but to accept his embrace. She settled back into her original position and closed her eyes, hoping to encourage him to do the same. Alas, it was not to be. "We should go to the godswood on the morrow," Brandon said, tucking her head under his chin.

"There is no need to press on so hastily," Barbrey tried to dissuade him. "We have time, Brandon. And your lord father has still not given his consent."

"And he's not likely to give it!" Brandon exclaimed, albeit quietly. "What are you waiting for, Barbrey?" He did not understand, he could not, and Barbrey did not blame him, but rather pitied him. Yet it seemed he was unwilling to force her hand. He simply murmured something she couldn't understand and let go of her to turn around. She now faced his back and breathed out a sigh on relief.

Closing her eyes in earnest this time, she moved just a little closer to Brandon's back, not quite touching him. Should she offer him comfort? Barbrey battled with herself over the appropriate course of action, but she could not suffer the despondency without doing anything. So she tentatively touched his shoulder, waiting for his reaction. There was none. Understanding by this that her touch did not bother him, Barbrey wrapped an arm around his waist and huddled closer even until her front was touching his back. Her body moulded after his instinctively.

While she could not be the wife he wished her to be, she could give him this and give it to him she would. Chasing away her darker thoughts, the woman breathed in lightly. She'd grown fond of him and she wished there was another way to make this all easier. It stood on the tip of her tongue to murmur an apology in his shoulder, but she managed to hold herself back. There was no sense in adding to the difficulty of their situation by uttering platitudes that would only serve to confuse matters.

Morning came with swift speed, and Barbrey was up before the first crowing on the rooster. She managed to get some paper from the innkeeper and found a quill packed among her small bag. It was time to come to a decision.

_'My Lord father,_

_I write to you as I find myself in a situation that requires advice and delicate handling. It is at your own urging that I have endeavoured to make Brandon Stark amiable to a union between our houses. I have done everything in my power, as you well know, and I have been met with success. By now you must have found my last letter and I need not explain or give details. Alas, our work has been in vain!_

_Lord Stark has not accepted his son's plea and thus our marriage will not have his blessing. What is more, he threatened to remove Brandon's inheritance, which brings me to the benefits of wedding this man. If he is without a title and his lands, then the marriage is beneath our House, and I should not like to bring down ours with an improper entanglement._

_If it is your wish that I remain his wife, then I shall comply, but if you do not agree, then I beg that you send your men after us. I shall provide a messenger and he will show you the way. I can hold Brandon from performing the marriage rites for, perhaps, a week, a couple at most. Yet you must make haste for he grows impatient and I have not enough reasons to deny him much longer of the thing he wishes._

_Yours,_

_Barbery'_

She blew gently over the ink to hasten the process of its drying and took the paper, folding it carefully. She crept out of the room and down the stairs. The innkeeper was already up and washing the tables when she encountered him. She asked if he had a man available to carry a message. "I need discretion in this matter, my good man, and a person I may rely on." She held out a few coins to sweeten her demands.

The man happily accepted her offering. "I shall send my son," he said, after biting into one of the coins. "Your Ladyship needs only tell me where to send the boy. He's swift and honest and he will carry any task out."

"Bring your son to me and I shall tell him all he needs to know," Barbarey replied. She smiled at the old man. "Hurry now." She added a few more coins whgich sent the man on his way. Watching him run thus, she almost feared he would fall and expire without carrying her task out properly.

But she needn't have concerned herself for a young man came down shortly after the old one ascended. He had a comely face, clean and well kept hair, and a tall, slender frame. "My father said you wanted to see me, my lady."

"Indeed. I have a task for you." She spent the next hour instructing the lad about the whereabouts of her father's castle and how he could get there swiftest and safest. She gave him too some coin and reminded him that she needed him to be careful. Her reasons were vague at best, for she did not want to raise suspicions by unburdening herself to strangers. "He is an uncle of mine and I have not seen him in some time. My husband and I would like to visit, but I thought it fair to give my lord warning of our coming. I shall await your return with the reply."

Feeling that her duty was done, Barbrey simply requested something warm to drink. She knew that Brandon would have no trouble finding her down once he woke up. How very interesting that a man reputed to have his skill was unable to feel her get up and leave. Brandon was a heavy sleeper and he did not wake up during the night, only very rarely. It was Barbrey's luck. She hummed a song under her breath, sitting down at one of tables and waiting for her drink.

The innkeeper's wife came with the spiced wine and placed it before her. Barbrey nodded her thanks and answered politely to the questions asked of her. "Aye, we've slept well, good woman. My husband and I are very pleased with your services." That put a satisfied smile on the woman's wizened face. "And your son is a very nice young man. I am sure he's a good worker too."

"Aye, my lady, I've never had trouble with that one," the innkeeper's wife disclosed, feeling confident enough to sit at Barbrey's table. "He's the best son. I reckon there's not one boy as good for miles around."

"You are very fortunate," Barbrey said by way of conversation. "I should feel blessed to have such a child myself." Surprisingly enough, it was the truth she spoke. She would like such a child extremely well.

"No doubt you'll have the finest children, my lady." There was something secretive about the look in the woman's eyes, almost like she knew some things that Barbrey did not."Would you like something to eat? I'll make you something; free of charge."

Barbrey was about to protest hen her stomach grumbled. "That would be most welcomed." She had already tipped the husband and the son generously. Perhaps that was why the old woman was acting o nice. Ah, the power of coin Barbrey leaned back in her seat.

True to word, the mistress of the inn returned with the food and even more drink. She had prepared two plates, which was just as well since Brandon was coming down the stair. Barbrey greeted with a fond smile and a small peck t his cheek. For his part, Brandon was happy to see her in a more amiable mood. His eyes told her as much, for he could scarcely talk as his mouth was full.

* * *

 

Women trying to get his attention was a normal occurrence, at least for Arthur it was. Of course, said women were not exactly of the cleanest reputation, which was to say that it was well known their enjoyed an active life dedicated to pleasure outside of their marriage bed. Arthur was happy to comply with the request they brought to him, as it was mutually advantageous. It was easy to forget one's problems in the arms of a beautiful woman. That had been his objective these past few years, ever since Elia's death. It was a coping mechanism that worked very well for him. The visits were almost never innocent, and they left him satisfied – at least for a few hours. There had been two or three who suggested something deeper. The moment a woman looked at him with something akin to affection in her eyes, Arthur knew it was time to put an end to the relationship.

But a maiden of good family was not one such visitor, so Arthur's surprise was understandable when he suddenly found himself in the presence of a young lady who he had met not too long ago, and unaccompanied. His first thought was that something had happened, yet she seemed at ease, or something close to that. "Lady Frey, what brings you here?"

Her cheeks reddened, no doubt with the knowledge that what she was doing was improper. "I did not mean to disturb, my lord. But I find myself in need of assistance." She waited to hear his reply, but Arthur was too busy studying her face. "I wish to see Lady Lyanna, but they tell me I am not allowed to."

"Did they tell you why?" he asked, inching closer to her. She took a small step back. He stopped."Well, my lady?"

"They said I needed the approval of His Majesty the King, the Lord Hand or yours, my lord." Her eyes fell to the floor as she struggled to put the words together in something that resembled intelligent speech. "I wouldn't dare pull the King from important matters, and I should not wish to divert the Lord Hand. I was thinking you might help me."

"Are you saying that the matters I see to are not important?" Arthur asked suddenly. He saw her eyes widen and her blush deepened. It was certainly an enjoyable interview. She hurried to make her apologies, her slight frame trembling at the thought of having incurred his wrath. "Lady Frey," he stopped her mid-sentence, "I was jesting."

She huffed, a sign of incredulity. "My lord!" Her frustration was a charming sight.

"There now, my lady. Shall I conduct you to Lady Star's chambers?" Her nod produced a smile from him. "Follow me."

He would have liked it better if she kept pace with him and walked at his side, but her rank was below him and to bring her next to him would only set tongues waggling. The last thing Arthur needed was the gossipmongers of King's Landing thinking he had an interest in a young girl. More to the point, the guards were actually doing their job for once. Rhaegar would be pleased to hear that.

Sure enough two men had been posted outside the doors of Lady Lyanna's lodgings. They were armed and attentive enough. Arthur approached him, Tyta close behind him. "You ser, what is your name?" he asked the man on the right."

"Quentyn Blackwood, my lord," the first sentinel answered.

"And you, ser?" Arthur questioned, turning to the other one.

"Alyn Royce, my lord?" the second guard replied.

"Well, Ser Blackwood and Ser Royce, this lady here," he nodded towards Tyta, "is to be permitted access to the rooms of Lady Lyanna at all time." The two men looked at one another for a short moment, then nodded their understanding. "Good men! Well, Lady Frey, I hope this is to your satisfaction."

"Thank you, my lord, for taking the time to assist me," she said simply.

"You are most welcome, my lady." He gave a sharp nod to the men and then retreated, leaving Tyta in their company.

"You are one of Lord Walder Frey's daughters – the old one – are you not, my lady?" Alyn Royce asked, with a small smile on his face. He looked inoffensive enough and he had a kind face.

"Indeed, Ser Royce. You are, I believe a nephew of the late Lady Perra, are you not?" She made him a small curtsey. Perra Royce had been the first wife of her lord father. It was said that the members of that family resembled each other greatly.

"I believe I am more entitled to ask about her knowledge, Alyn!" Quentyn exclaimed. As the son of a cousin of Lady Alyssa Blackwood he was closer related to Tyta. Alyssa Blackwood had been the fourth wife of Lord Walder, and Tyta's mother.

"You are Doryen Blackwood's son," Tyta recalled him well enough. Quentyn was some years her senior and a pleasant enough fellow. According to some of her older sisters he was also an excellent kisser. Of course, Tyta had paid no attention to their description of him. He was tall, but not quite as tall as Lord Dayne and just a smidge shorter than Alyn Royce. "I think you are the one who put that grasshopper on Morya's plate."

"My lady has a good memory. You would not have been above seven years of age at that time." He smiled impishly and opened the door for her. "We are glad to have seen you again, aren't we, Alyn?"

"True, true. Send our regards to your Lord Frey," the other added.

Tyta thanked them for their kindness and entered the ante-chamber. A maid was carrying out some dresses and made a strange face upon seeing Tyta, as if to ask what her business there was. Tyta ignored the woman and went to the second set of doors. She opened them, an anticipatory smile already blooming on her face.

"Tyta!" her friend exclaimed sitting up so suddenly that she must have made herself dizzy. She held out her hand."I am so glad to see you; you cannot begin to imagine."

The she-wolf looked somewhat dishevelled, but that Tyta thought to be from her confinement. A few shadows and bruises could still be seen, yet she had healed, In body at least. Her leg was still bandaged, but her wrists were now free. Scars hugged the arms, adorning her like bracelets. Tyta took them as signs of her courage. Her eyes filled with water at those. It was foolish of her to be crying now, but they looked painful. She daren't think about how they felt. Lyanna's worried glance prompted her to try speaking, but all she managed to do was release a sob."I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Tyta cried.

Lyanna pulled her closer. She took her in her arms in a sisterly hug. "It is alright." There was an understanding quality about the older female which made the other comfortable enough to shed her tears and release all the fear festering in her breast.

"I should be the one comforting you." A sincere apology bloomed on her lips. "If only I had been a little faster."

"Don't," Lyanna warned her softly. "You saved me. If it hadn't been for you, I do not think they would have found out soon enough that Robert had taken me." She smiled serenely. "Your timing was just right. And it continues to be so. You won't believe how frustrated I've grown locked up here."

"Are they not taking proper care of you, my friend?" Tyta laughed sweetly, imagining that, indeed, Lyanna was more used to doing as she wanted than to be locked away.

"You laugh now, but you just wait until you are confined to your apartments." The teasing caution made both break into peals of laughter. "By the way, how did you ever manage to come in? I thought it was ordered that guards be posted at the door."

"There are," Tyta confirmed, adding a nod to strengthen the point. "But I managed to obtain Lord Dayne's help. I do wonder, though, when shall you be able to leave these rooms?" Not that they were anything less than grand, but she too would chafe at being locked away.

"The Maester said that I'm making fast progress and if I promise to keep off my legs, I should be taken out to the gardens very soon." Lyanna leaned further back against her pillow. "I thought I would be better rested after so many days of lying abed, yet I confess I find myself even more fatigued. Have you any news from the outside world that you might share with me?"

Understanding her friend's need for a distraction, Tyta set up a constant stream of chatter, speaking about whatever came to her mind. She did her very best to satisfy Lyanna's curiosity. The truth, however, was that few things had happened. If one did not count Cersei's constant attempts to catch the King's attention that was. Even Tyta found herself shaking her head at the lioness' displays which only continued to get bolder.

It soon came time for her to take her leave of Lyanna. She departed with a promise of another visit and possibly some lemon tarts which the master had forbidden the injured woman, claiming it would only serve to agitate her. Privately, Tyta agreed, but she wouldn't be the one to stand between Lyanna and lemon cakes if she could help it. As it happened her friend held those sweets in high affection.

Outside the guards had changed. She greeted the men respectfully but did not engage any of the two in conversations. While Blackwood and Royce were somewhat related to her and could claim an acquaintance, the others she had no business speaking to. Stevron had been quite adamant that she have a care to whom she spoke, claiming that she was young and impressionable and someone might take it into their heads to take advantage of the deficiencies her age provided. Tyta was inclined to listen to him, if only for the fact that he ought to know better than her how men thought and what their intentions were. Not to mention the fact that her brief encounter with Robert Baratheon had put a seed of fear inside of her. Now she knew that some males could be inconsiderate brutes even to women they claimed to love.

But perhaps she was being too severe. Robert Baratheon was clearly deranged, or if not he must needs be a very morbid person. Either way she was glad that he'd run away and that he would no longer inflict his presence upon Lyanna. Rumour had it that the King himself had spoken to the High Septon and in a matter of weeks a trial was to take place to determine whether the marriage between the unfortunate Lady Lyanna and her wretched husband would hold. If her friend's claims were true, and Tyta did not doubt for a second that they were, then she would be truly free to begin her life again, and possibly even find a man to her taste to settle down with. What a fine thing it would be, for Tyta did consider it a pity that good women like Lyanna Stark were forced to endure execrable marriages, while people truly terrible continued to torment others at their own leisure.

"What have we here?" The question startled Tyta out of her thoughts. Unfortunately for her, it was not a pleasant encounter she was about to have.

"Lady Lannister," she curtsied, her voice low and subdued. Perhaps she would be left alone. "Good evening."

"It would be good, if the likes of you would not block my way." Strangely enough, the hall was wide enough to fit at least ten persons walking side by side. "Have you come all the way to King's Landing with all of Lord Frey's brood, or is it just you, lithe girl?"

"I am here with my brother, Stevron, my lady." Cersei Lannister loved nothing more than to pick on persons she thought beneath her. And quite clearly it brought her a great deal of joy, by the look on her face. Tyta tried not to flinch.

"Doubtlessly you're here to breed," the blonde sneered, her lovely face contorting. "But don't you think there are quite enough of you already?" she asked meanly, a cruel grin spreading over her lips.

How did one reply to that? Tyta blinker owlishly. "To my knowledge, my lady, there is only one of me. Unless of course, you know differently, and my father had two, three or up to ten other daughters by the name of Tyta." Satisfied, she realised only too late that Cersei would not appreciate being talked back to.

Going ashen, the lioness made an impatient gesture with her hand. Her eyes widened comically and the same hand came down to deliver a stinging blow to the younger female's cheek. The bodily assault was followed by a string of curses so foul that Tyta had to wonder who it was that taught Tywin's daughter to speak like that. The imprecations, accusations and threats left little doubt in Tyta's mind that she made an enemy of a very powerful person. How rotten a luck she must have! For all that, Tyta endured the verbal assault stoically, hoping that a person might pass by and stop the tirade. Even Cersei Lannister had to be too much of a lady to cause a scene in the presence of others.

Her payers seemed to have reached a benevolent god, for not a minute had passed before Cersei was cut off mid-sentence by a booming voice. "Lady Lannister! You grace us with your presence once again. How very fortunate." The tall frame of Arthur Dayne emerged from the shadows, somewhere behind Tyta. "The Lord Lannister was just now wondering at your tardiness, but I see you have met Lady Frey. I am sure that if you explain matters to him, he won't be cross at all." Which was a lie, of course. To the best of Tyta's knowledge the Lord Lannister was never pleased if he could help it, and most of the time he could help it admirably well.

Cersei hissed sometime unpleasant under her breath but she curtsied and departed, while her eyes promised that Tyta had not seen the last of her. "Thank you, my lord," she finally spoke after a long moment of silence in which they'd watched Cersei disappear down another hall.

"I am a knight, my dear girl; saving maiden from lions on a rampage is a requirement," came his easy answer. Did he practice these lines? Tyta had no time to wonder why Cersei herself was not included in the category of maidens, not would she have troubled herself with the thought if she did have the time. "Come, my lady, 'tis high time you were back in your own rooms," she heard him say.

* * *

 

Jaime kissed his twin's naked shoulder, holding her to him. Cersei sighed softly at his touch. She was so beautiful, his golden sister. Where Jaime was muscle and sinew, Cersei was roundness and softness, almost as tall as he and lovelier than any other woman he had ever seen in his life. His heart thumped loudly at the mere thought of her, and the blood in his veins rushed with renewed frenzy. "Did you miss me while I was gone?" he whispered in her locks, his hand drifting over to her flat stomach. She placed her hand over his.

"You know I did. I always miss you when you are gone." They were not whole one without the other. "Must you always spend so much time with that creature?" Her face contorted with the distaste she held for the younger sibling.

The good mood that had settled about them disappeared. Jaime sat slightly up. "He is our brother," he reminded the woman softly. Cersei had never been fond of their brother. Poor Tyrion, he still did not understand why it was that both the female twin and his father despised him. Nor did Jaime understand. Tyrion was just a child.

"He killed our mother!" Cersei accuses, soft hands gripping his shoulders. "That little monster tore her apart, Jaime. You cannot expect me to forgive him." Nay, he did not expect so deep a hatred to be forgotten in one day, but Jaime still tried his best to soothe his sister. "As if it is not bad enough that father allowed him to live and breathe and stain the reputation of our family, you must show him attention whenever you go home." Yet Cersei was not easily stopped when the mood was upon her. The stubbornness clearly came from their father.

Schooling his features into those of an amused man, Jaime attempted to placate Cersei. "Yet father did allow it, and I must act accordingly. There is no use in hating Tyrion, sweet sister." Tyrion was hardly at fault for their mother's death. He did not ask to be born and have her die bringing him into the world. "I hardly think he planned all of this." Plenty of women died giving birth. Hadn't the King's own wife gone thus from the world? Did that mean that Rhaegar loved his daughter less for it? Indeed not. As Jaime had heard it, the King adored his daughter.

"It is not a matter of intention," his sister protested. "He killed out mother. Whether he wanted to or not, I do not care." And neither did their father it seemed. Jaime was not sure why Tywin had allowed his lithe brother to live, but he was never at ease with his youngest son's presence, he just hid it better than his daughter.

"We cannot bring mother back." Jaime took her back in his arms. "It is pointless to discuss this." He kissed her lips and bid her sweet dreams. Cersei hadn't wanted to give up but she was rather tired, so she allowed her brother some peace for the time being.

"Be sure to close then door properly," she told him, as Jaime climbed out of her bed and pulled his clothes back on. He felt her eyes admiring him and made slow work of pulling on his breeches, then his tunic. The doublet he took in his hand. There was little need for it. Cersei turned her face away as he left. He knew she did not like the sight of him leaving, having claimed more than once that she felt empty without him.

The feeling was mutual. It was very lucky for them that the problem of Lyanna Stark has taken the attention of everyone. It left Jaime and Cersei with both time and opportunity. Rumours were flying left and right about the many abuses Lady Lyanna had suffered at the hands of her husband, one more outrageous than the other. Some claimed she was forced into the marriage, other said her own father sold her for an obscene amount of Gold Dragons, and there were those who claimed the lady never married and was spirited away and used out of wedlock to fulfil the, undoubtedly, perverse desires of Robert Baratheon . It was the last notion that many had a problem with. As if the first two were any less appalling. Such was their world. People did not bat an eyelash at the news that a young woman was made to enter a marriage with a man she had no desire to wed, nor did they think it amiss for a father to barter his daughter to the highest bidder, who most often happened to be old and lecherous to boot. But they took great offence should any sacrifice such as these took place outside the sanctity of wedlock. Jaime though them all hypocrites. But as he cared nothing for any of them he was content to keep quiet.

One of his main concerns though was his sister's determination to enter one such bargain. Their father only encouraged her. Cersei had recently become determined to catch the attention of the widowed King. Apparently she had some notion of becoming Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. "Only think of what it would mean for the family," she would whisper to him as they lay tangled in the sheets of her bed after an exhausting round of lovemaking. Jaime was by no means a fool. He knew such a match would be advantageous, but he was also aware that the King showed no preference for his sister. He showed little interest in any woman to be fair.

Many though he still carried a flame for his departed bride. Jaime rather wished for that to be the truth. If the King would not have his sister, he could possibly convince her to run away together. He had tried it in the past with disastrous results. Cersei did not even want to hear of it. But Jaime was certain that he could convince her in the end. Father could just leave his legacy upon Tyrion's shoulders. The gods knew his little brother showed signs of a very intelligent mind even at his young age. Tywin Lanniser of all people should be able to appreciate the shrewdness of his second son. For some reason though, the patriarch of the Lannister family turned a blind eye to the achievements of his youngest child. Indeed, most of the time, he acted like his second son did not exist. But the fact remained that he would have to console himself with Tyrion once Jaime made off with Cersei, and he would, in his own time.

Rhaegar Targaryen would never have his sister. Not because he was unworthy. If ever there was a man to whom Jaime would, grudgingly and barely willingly, surrender his sister to, then the King would be that person. However, the King seemed content to not have his sister, so Jaime was content to not press matters like his father would. The Dragon was tolerant enough as it was. Who knew what an angry fire-spitting lizard could do when angered.

Once inside his own bedchamber, Jaime slipped under the covers. Under the current circumstances the tourney had been delayed. Most lords and ladies had been happy enough with the outcome as it gave them some time to acquaint themselves better with the preferences of the Capitol fashion and manners in order to make a batter impression upon the King. It mattered little, of course. Ultimately the King would choose at the advice of some close friends as most kings did. He would rely on the knowledge of Arthur Dayne, Jon Connington and Oberyn Martell, as Doran was quite unable to make the journey to the Capitol. His father was bound to be disappointed.

Dayne was amused by his sister, Jaime had gathered, and perhaps even admired her beauty, but the man would never recommend her to the King for the simple reason that he and Twyin Lannister fostered a great deal of animosity between them, the reason for which was unkown. Jon Connington held a real distaste for Cersei. He had taken it in his head that the Lannisters were power-hungry and giving them one finger would never be enough for them – which Jaime did not deny. His father and his sister were indeed interested in the balance of the forces acting in their realm. As for Oberyn Martell, he had once heard Cersei uttering something disparaging about his dear sister and he never quite forgave her. Granted she had gone a bit far in deeming the King's late wife unable to conceive even if the Father himself took into her bed. At that time Jaime had found it amusing. Oberyn not so much; and the son of Tywin had the distinct feeling that the Viper would not likely let it slide. Should he get a chance to foil any of Cersei's plans, he would gladly do so.

* * *

 

Rickard touched his daughter's cheek gently. "How are you this day?" He held a peeled blood orange in his other hand. Lyanna reached for that, her eyes still holding a faint hint of distrust. Her father had entered the room with a grim face, and for all his trying, Lyanna could feel that something was wrong.

"I am well, father," she said in the end. Her fingers wrapped around the piece of fruit given to her, but she did not raise it to her mouth. Instead she concentrated on her father's face. "My lord, I think it would be best if you told me the reason for your visit."

It could be a number of things that induced Lord Stark to come to her bedside earlier. Lyanna could only wonder if it had anything to do with her reckless brother. Perhaps Brandon had been found. Despite his claim that he would do nothing for his runaway son, the she-wolf was not at all convince that her father hadn't sent at least a few men to keep watch on his heir and the woman he intended to wed. Rickard hadn't said as much, but his daughter was certain he was willing to cooperate after the disaster she had suffered.

"I need your word that you shall do your best to comply to what should be asked of you," he said morosely.

"I should like to hear what I am agreeing to," Lyanna insisted. While she could not erase the filial love she held for her father, Lyanna had learned trust was best administered in small quantity when it came to his words. Once was enough; she would not allow him to use her a second time. Luck had been on her side in the whole ordeal with Robert, but who knew what could happen a second time around.

"It seems one of Robert's servants was in league with her master," Rickard started calmly. "She claims that Robert has been nothing but kind to you and that he has spent many nights in your bed as your lawful husband." He held his hand up at her shocked expression, knowing very well she was about to offer a loud protest. "It is a lie, that much I know. Yet 'tis credible. You are wedded to the man; it is natural that he would wish to bed you."

"He did not bed me," Lyanna hissed through clenched teeth. "It is a servant's word against that of a lady." Well aware that even the nobles lied, Lyanna felt a twinge of guilt over using such an obviously underhanded method. Yet hers was the truth. If she needed the circumstances of her birth to validate her word, she would use that.

"It is not important if he did it in truth. But that wretch has already spoken the words." Rickard's brows furrowed. "They will want proof of your innocence."

What proof could she possibly offer? Lyanna sighed. "There is something that can be done. Otherwise you would not have come to tell me this."

"A group of four Septas will be instructed to determine whether or not you are still a maid. If what you have told me is true, then you must still have an intact maidenhead, so we need not worry." His explanation made it clear that he sought a confirmation of his beliefs on the matter.

A surge of annoyance shot through the she-wolf. "I am still a maid. Let the Septas examine me as they wish. I have nothing to fear from them." She wondered if all the nobles gathered whispered about her misfortunes. Tyta had offered nothing but a small smile when Lyanna asked what was being said about her and told her she needn't worry over the foolishness of others. Yet it seemed to her that the foolishness of those people could well destroy her. After all, her father was right, her shame was not only hers; unless the patriarch of the Stark family decided she no longer served any purpose and threw her away. Luckily enough for her, she still had some use. Her success was hinged on exactly those rumours. The game could only be played if she followed the rules, and Lyanna had only just started learning them.

For instance, an accusation was never repeated to the presumed perpetrator if that person belonged to a powerful house. Usually the rest of the nobles were content to whisper about the crime behind the back of the person responsible. That left the accused without any means of defending himself, and it also gave the audience a good spectacle to laugh at or shake their head at in disapproval and contempt. Were Lyanna to barge out of her room and shout at the top of her lungs that Robert hadn't touched even the tip of a toe, it would be useless. Her only accomplishment would be giving those people more material for their gossip. It would serve her infinitely better to keep silent and speak only when needed.

Oftentimes in the legends of old the hero was an honest man. Everyone praised the virtue, yet few could boast possessing it. Admiring the honesty of a lord or lady was all good and well, but it did not confer an elevated status. Those same legends praised craftiness that bordered on deceitfulness. What did that say about the morality of their world? Ideals had no place in the struggle for power. Lyanna realised that. The ideal of fatherly love should have stopped Rickard Stark from practically shoving her into Robert's arms. But it didn't. The ideal of chivalry should have held Baratheon back from burdening her with an unwanted marriage. It hadn't. Nay, her world was far from ideal. Yet the young she-wolf had hoped that she might retain some of those principles and not bent them.

One compromise could only lead to another compromise, and so on and so forth. She had compromised by allowing her father to once again implicate her in one of his schemes. Undoubtedly she would have to follow through with it. "Why is it so important to you that I be found a maid?" Even if she hadn't been untouched, Robert had given up any right to her when he ran away. The condition of her maidenhead was important only if she wished to marry again and wed into an important house. "You may always bribe the next man who thinks to be my bridegroom, my lord." Her mockery was rewarded with a cold glare from her father. Rickard stood up to leave, but Lyanna had one more question for him. "What is the name of the servants that accused me of having slept with Robert?"

"I believe they call her Alys." He gave a shallow bow. "I shall not be seeing you until after your examination. I have managed to have them allow Old Nan to keep you company, but the four Septas are of the High Septon's choosing. I beg that you employ your mother's lessons in courtliness, daughter, and see us through this unpleasant incident." He left without another word.

Alys? Lyanna was still stuck on that name and barely paid any mind to her father's pleading or his subsequent departure. The Others take all these traitors parading through her life, Lyanna thought, rather uncharitably. She had treated that woman and her child well, despite her suspicions of Brynden's parentage. That boy looked too much like Robert for him to have been anyone else's. Alys herself had given it away with a few longing stares towards the man. Lyanna had graciously ignored that, though it was an affront to her pride and status as mistress of her husband's home. She had taken Alys under her wing, foolishly entrusting her safety in the hands of a traitor. Why would someone deliberately speak lies like those Alys had uttered when they knew Lyanna's distaste for the man she had been forced to wed? Why cause her trouble like that?

Anger and curiosity gnawed at her. Lyanna almost called for Alys, but stopped herself at the last moment. It would do no good to speak to the woman. Alys had already chosen her side. Afraid she would throttle the ungrateful servant for her attitude and actions, Lyanna forfeited her plan to see her. There would come a time when she would show herself superior. Until then the she-wolf resolved to make due with proving herself innocent. Robert had to be somehow involved, Damn the man. Even from far away he exerted his influence over her. "By the old gods and the new, I swear that I will break these chains you've bound me with," she murmured under her breath, eyes narrowing into slits.

Her fate would not be dictated by a hated husband. If for that she had to endure that humiliating testing of her innocence, Lyanna was prepared to make that sacrifice. She would prevail and then she would find a man who did not repulse her.

* * *

 

Rhaegar gave Connington a long stare. "My lord, surely you do not mean this? I cannot release the child from a vow she was forced to perform under duress, only to obligate her to go through with another marriage."

"Your Majesty misunderstands our meaning," Varys interposed softly, intelligent eyes shining in the warm light of the candles. "We do not seek to trouble the lady with this proposal, yet such a union between House Targaryen and House Stark has its use. It would be the waste of a perfect opportunity to turn away from this chance."

"What exactly are you saying?" Rhaegar questioned, leaning back into his chair. Certainly, wedding the Stark girl would bring stability. He would gain a wife and gods be willing an heir. Cersei Lannister would be out of his hair, which was almost enough to make him propose to the young woman right away. Of course, the North would perceive it as flattering that he would choose a queen from those parts, and it would go a long way to strengthen the Targaryen claim over those domains.

While it was true that Targaryens preferred to keep the bloodline pure, even they recognised the merit of aligning themselves with the former ruling houses of the Seven Kingdoms. The North was a wide territory. Should they take it into their heads to rebel, they could cause trouble. Having a Northerner queen had not yet been done, supposedly because the men of the North preferred to keep their daughters in those frozen lands rather than to bring them to court. Yet now, Lady Lyanna was there.

For all that, Rhaegar was curious how Varys would try to persuade him. The Spider, as he was called by his allies and enemies alike, was a clever man. And he was concerned with the realm first and foremost. If he suggested this match, surely his reasons were sound.

"Lady Lyanna is the only daughter of Winterfell, Your Majesty, and she carries in her veins the blood of the First Men. Although the age of the First Men is no longer, the Starks of Winterfell are admired throughout the realm for their strength and nobility. They have remained in power for many ages. They deserve this consideration, as one of the oldest and strongest houses." The eunuch gave a slight smile. "Furthermore, Lord Stark insists on an alliance with a house of the South. Perhaps we may turn Lord Stark's eyes to the Lannister maiden. That way, even if it somehow came to pass that Lady Lyanna failed her purpose, Lord Tywin would be unable to push for the marriage he wants."

"I should add that Lady Lyanna had made quite an impression upon Your Majesty's daughter," Jon Connington pointed out. That Rhaegar had expected. Jon's problem was that he was more preoccupied with his King's pleasure than with the realm's prosperity.

But, Varys was right to point out the futility of Tywin's plans should Rhaegar bid Cersei to go and wed a Stark. She would be a good-sister to him, and thus never able to enter his bed. That ought to put a stop to her father's ambition.

"As for the Lady herself," Varys continued, "she is certainly good-looking. I have not had the pleasure of seeing her closely myself, but various lords and ladies have assured me that even with the regrettable violence that has been done to her, she is still quite lovely. There is the added benefit of her youth. Your Majesty may even choose to delay the bedding given the bride's young age. Even for a few years. That would give Your Majesty time enough to shape her after the needs of the realm." He fell quiet for a few short moments before looking up into Rhaegar's eyes. "One may also take into account the benefit such a union would bring to Your Majesty's image."

Rhaegar Targaryen, righteous king and protector of maidenly virtues. That would surely make him a favourite of the Maiden. How thrilling. Of course, marriage had little to do with protecting a maiden's purity. But it offered a legal background sufficient for the consummation of a nature to be considered shameful outside marriage. It would simply show that he was humane enough to listen to the troubles of those who could not so easily defend themselves.

"Lord Stark has already sworn that his daughter is still untouched. The Septas will come to the same conclusion in a short time. And then Your Majesty may release the girl from that sham of a marriage she has until now endured." Jon straightened his back, a heavy question making its way to the surface. "Should Dorne oppose, what will Your Majesty do?"

"Dorne is part of the realm, same as any other former kingdom. They cannot oppose as it is not their prerogative. You have said it yourselves, my lords, an alliance with the North will offer us a strong military power should the need arise." Rhaegar wrote something on a piece of paper then folded it over. "Elia Martell was my wife and through her House Martell has gained my ear in the matter of a few problems, yet they would do well to not forget that I do not heed their advice exclusively." He held a warm regard towards the members of his departed spouse's family; they were resourceful and had a knack for politics, but they were not the only important house that demanded pleasing. The King could not ignore the rest of the realm in favour of a small part of it. Otherwise he would not reign long.

Likely, Doran had already heard about Rhaegar's intentions to find himself a new wife. Through Oberyn his words and thoughts would be known – if Rhaegar managed to convince the Dornish Prince to give him a straightforward answer. He would waste time and good wine on that, as Oberyn was known to like his games more than his duties, but Rhaegar did not complain. Oberyn had his moments.

"I will consider the proposition carefully," Rhaegar dismissed the two. They were good advisors and their plan had its merits. But he would like to speak to a man closer to his mind. "Get me Arthur Dayne," he ordered one of the guards standing outside the chamber doors.

As was his custom, Arthur took care not to hasten himself too much. Most people supposed the King to be a patient person. While it was true that Rhaegar display a calm exterior on most occasions, he was quite far from what was rightly serene. Sometimes he thought Arthur acted thus on purpose. He did his best to hold his temper in check, which, he had confided into his friend often enough, was a difficult feat. This quality he had developed could be easily attributed to many years spent in the treacherous court of his father. His existence depended on it.

Aerys Targaryen had been the one to teach his son that a mask was always necessary when dealing with the nobility. Arthur had been one of Rhaegar's close friends even then, so he'd heard the old king many a time instruction his successor. Even as a Prince people tried to use him to fulfil their own plans and wishes. There were few people Rhaegar liked and even fewer he could trust. Weaknesses were unaffordable. The faintest trace of a weak point invited trouble. It was enough that his nobles fought over matters that ought not to see the light of day, so foolish were they; he hardly had any need of them trying to peel his armour off in search of something to exploit. Thus it was much safer for everyone involved if he was perceived as composed and always in control of himself.

"Your Highness seems to be contemplating very serious matters," Arthur observed upon entering, his step brisk, his face pleasantly neutral. "Am I to understand you have received a worthy proposal from your true Lord Hand and the Spider?"

"You do enjoy mocking them," Rhaegar noted lightly. He poured wine in two cups and offered one to Arthur. "They think it their duty."

"Then you are not displeased." Of course Arthur would have already heard some whispers of it. Rhaegar nodded. "When last I spoke to them they had three candidates in mind, each enticing in their own way. I suppose they finally settled on the most beneficial union."

"How exactly did Lord Stark contract his daughter's marriage?" the King questioned. "Was there a contract? I was given to understand that he offered her no dowry, nor did Baratheon settle a dower upon the girl."

"I have found something of interest among a stack of old letters." Arthur held out a time yellowed paper. Its creased surface displayed a neat hand, though most likely to belong to a male, as the letters were sharp and precise, rather like the writing of a war general. "It seems Robert's parents were in the middle of negotiating a match between their eldest son and a girl of House Swann."

"Daela Swann," Rhaegar read the name out loud. "Wouldn't Robert have been no older than four years of age at that time?"

"Indeed. The lady herself was a couple of years older, and everyone though the match brilliant." Arthur held out another letter. This one Rhaegar skimmed over. "And for a time it was. The Swann girl spent some time as a one of Casanna Baratheon's ladies after she was flowered."

"Daela Swann must not have taken the news of Robert's marriage too well." Yet no complaints had been lodged upon the subject.

"I am sure that should she still be of the living the lady would have had something to say. But as it happens, Lady Swann was taken by the Stranger not long after she turned six-and-ten." Something in Arthur's voice hinted towards darker motives than those common. "Officially she succumbed to a sweating fever. She was sent hone before the illness began and her parents instilled a quarantine not a couple of days after her return."

"You suspect a pregnancy?" Lord Steffon was not the sort to send away a helpless woman. "Why not simply call a Septon to seal the marriage and be done with it?" It should not have proven a problem and likely it would have saved everyone a good deal of trouble.

"Certainly had Lord Steffon known, he would have done so. But he was only then returning from the quest your father had sent him on." The rest was easy to piece together. Yet Rhaegar allowed Arthur to go on. "Apparently Robert no longer had any interest in the girl, so he sent her back to her own family. Lord Steffon dies soon after and Robert saw no reason to keep to the bargain his father made. Perhaps the Swanns tried to rid themselves of the evidence of the girl's shame, or mayhap she dies in childbed. Nevertheless, she is gone."

"Have the Swanns submit the contract if they still have it," Rhaegar instructed. It would help Lady Lyanna's cause should it be proven that Robert had had a contract with another woman and not kept to it. If indeed the girl had carried his child and he refused to do right by her, the High Septon would have to take that into consideration too.

"If it means anything, I think that Lady Lyanna is not such a bad choice. She is certainly better than Cersei Lannister," Arthur offered with an impertinent smile. "Yet I cannot understand why you would haste to the altar."

"The whole matter falls rather too conveniently for me to ignore it. Lady Lyanna boasts some benefits that I am entirely agreeable to. Besides, I still need that heir." He folded the letters carefully and handed them back to Arthur. "Yet she also has the advantage of being a bit too young to bear children, which gives me the time to know her better."

"I hope you are not going to start with that 'bond' of yours again. Wives are for breeding, my friend, not for loving. If you want love, there are enough women who will indulge you without the burden of marriage," Lord Dayne laughed. His teasing extracted a smile from the King.

"I do not count on loving my wife, Dayne. But there is hardly anything wrong with courting affection within one's marriage, nor is wanting an understanding wife a crime to my knowledge," the monarch replied.

* * *

 

Lyanna looked at the man who entered with some astonishment. She thought she would have no more visitors before that odious trial she was supposed to undergo. But she supposed it was a king's prerogative to do as he willed. "Your Majesty," she said, falling into the customary obeisance.

"My lady," he replied, "it beings me great relief to see you back on your feet." She inclined her head politely, having not been aware that the King held her in such high regard. For a short moment Lyanna was tempted to comment, but she refrained. "I am sure you're wondering at my visiting so very suddenly."

"I suppose I am somewhat curious, but by no means should Your Majesty feel obliged to indulge me," she quipped gently. It applied to all males that they tried to keep their female counterparts in the dark on most occasions. "I am most used to spending my day between being confused and being frustrated at the feeling of bewilderment."

Rhaegar laughed heartily, much to Lyanna's delighted surprise. She had expected to be rebuked. But the King seemed to take well to her complaining. He was certainly a more gracious creature than she would have thought. After his mirth dissolved, he regarded her with a penetrating stare. Lyanna lowered her gaze. She found it somewhat difficult to keep her eyes on his face for some reason.

"As it is not my wish to keep you in a state of anxiety, my lady, I shall try to be as concise as humanly possible," he said, indicating that she should sit down with a wave of his hand she could not miss. He sat down too. "Without doubt you have heard about the trial, so I shall not distress you further with that subject." He fell silent again. Lyanna had to look at him then. "The truth is, my lady, that I have a proposition for you."

"A proposition?" she repeated, sounding somewhat dumb even to her own ears. "What exactly does Your Majesty have in mind?" At least the man had the decency to ask her, and not give orders.

"I would be honoured in my lady allowed me to pay her court after the marriage to Robert is dissolved." Well, that had been rather bluntly put, but Lyanna was not about to complain. "I realise it is somewhat sudden, but I believe we could match splendidly."

"Then why does Your Highness request my permission. Most men would simply demand the hand of the woman they had set their sights on." What an interesting man. Lyanna admiration for him grew considerably.

"I have told you not too long ago that you are entitled to have some say in the choice of your future. I do not intend to prove myself a hypocrite by doing something contrary to what I believe is right. It is my hope that you accept, but as a man, I would find it offensive should you have me because you are ordered to," he explained patiently, dispelling her distrust.

An ugly thought reared its head just then. "Has Your Majesty not heard what is being whispered throughout the Capitol then?"

"Rumours do not concern me at all, lady. You have told what passed through your marriage and I require no more than your word. You are, after all, an honourable woman," Rhaegar replied. Lyanna wanted to hug him then. "And even if it were different, my lady, you are not accountable for the sins of others."

Tears welled in her eyes. "I do believe this is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me." What he offered her was more precious than a thousand Gold Dragons. "Yet I cannot help but ask why you would want me, Your Highness. Certainly, there are better candidates. Easier to obtain, so to speak."

"What is easy is hardly ever satisfying," the King responded in a wise manner. "I will not lie to you, my lady. There are considerable advantages that a union between our houses would bring. I have taken those into account when I made my decision, and they do represent a fundamental factor, but I sincerely believe that we would be well matched on a more personal level."

Why had she expected something different from him? Lyanna knew that his proposal was a saving grace. He was king and considerate, going as far as to give her the choice. Her. And not to her father or anyone else. She could be his Queen. He would treat her well, she supposed. He seemed like such a man. She should be pleased. And somewhere in her heart she was; she knew she was. But then, why did that feeling of foreboding course through her? Her silly heart had gone and misinterpreted his kindness and understanding, turning it into more than it was. Lyanna took care to hide her disappointment behind a thoughtful mask.

"I require some time to think about this proposal, Your Majesty," Lyanna finally replied. She had been tempted to accept right away, but something held her back. Presumably it was the same twinge of regret the King's pragmatic view of the situation brought in her chest.

"But of course," he answered, an amused smile making its way to his lips. "It would be unseemly to court a wedded lady. You shall have the necessary time to think of everything, I trust, as I only plan to start this courtship after the trial is concluded. If my lady is not opposed to you."

"I do not think I shall be opposed." Lyanna gave him to hope that she was interested and she would likely enter a betrothal quite happily. "Might I make a request of Your Majesty?"

"Certainly." He sat up, preparing to leave. Amethyst eyes gave her an inquiring look.

"I should like to see the Princess after the trail is over. I have promised her something and as I am an honourable woman I plan to do exactly as I said I would." She met his stare and was pleased by his pleasure at her words.

"Consider it done, my lady."

* * *

 

Catelyn looked at the selection of materials that had been brought far her to inspect. Lysa touched the red wool, looking almost wistful. Her younger sister had made no secret of her admiration for the position Catelyn would be afforded after her marriage. "Brandon Stark is so handsome and his house so important. You are so lucky that father arranged for you to wed him. I wish he would find me a man just like that," Lysa confided in her sister, picking a bolt of fine, deep red wool. "Although I should like it better if I did not turn into an icicle before my wedding night is out," she went on with a wide smile.

"I am sure he will," Catelyn replied with a smile of her own. She took a piece of blue gossamer and held it up in the light. "Perhaps he will broker an alliance with House Lannister for you, my dear little sister. Would you not like that, Lysa?" Catelyn was counting on the fact that her sister desired a handsome man for her husband. "You could be the next lady of Casterly Rock. Lysa Lannister sound very fine to my ears."

"To mine too," the younger sister agreed heartily. "I have heard that Jaime Lannister is a most handsome young man. They say his sister if the most beautiful creature to have ever graced the Seven Kingdoms. Then Jaime must surely be the best looking man in the realm. He is of an age with you, is he not?"

"A year my senior, I believe. Cersei Lannister too." Catelyn had never really spent that much time thinking about suitors and marriage. Since the death of her mother it fell to her to care for her younger siblings. As Lysa was close in age to her she had always been expected to help; yet her sister had always been a dreamer. Catelyn was the true mistress of the house. Lysa helped when she wished to and only in the amount that she wished to.

One day her father simply told her she was to wed the heir to Winterfell, Brandon Stark. Her reaction had been to thank him for such a good match and think nothing more of it. It was the duty of any father to find a spouse for his children, even more so where dynastic reasons were concerned. House Stark was among the oldest, strongest and proudest of the realm. Even more, The Starks of Winterfell had been kings at once. Their blood was as noble as the Targaryens', sitting the Iron Throne. What was there not to like about such a match. Furthermore, Catelyn had always and always would like by the words of her house: Family, Duty, Honour. She would wed for her family's prosperity as was her duty to her father, and her honour would be satisfied by entering such an important house.

On her deathbed her mother had asked that she do in all things so that she may be able to hold her head up and have no regrets nor be ashamed of her actions. Catelyn had taken that vow to heart and she strove to live by it. That was perhaps the reason for which she was the favourite daughter of her father's, and not her flightier sister. But Catelyn loved Lysa despite her shortcomings, and the both of them loved little Edmure.

And in truth, Brandon Stark was a very amiable young man. She had met him on two occasions before. The first time she ever saw him was at a tourney. They were not yet betrothed and had not exchanged so much as a greeting, but she had noted, even then, that he was a handsome fellow. He had been tall and broad for his age, with an open sort of face and an inviting smile. More than one lady had turned her head after him though he'd barely been a man grown then.

The second time they had been was shortly after the intention to wed them was announced. Catelyn had not seen him in some years and his features had changed some but not enough to make him unrecognisable. She, in contrast, had grown a head taller and had gained the appearance of a woman. Brandon had been all that a lady could ever ask for, gallant and attentive, but not at all give to courting. He looked at her with kind eyes, yet held no true interest; Catelyn had gathered that much by the way she later witnessed him staring at a buxom serving girl. That had made her feel inadequate.

Yet Brandon was not unkind even after that. Not once during his stay did he slight her. In fact, he seemed to be trying his best to make her smile. He would compliment her on her dress and hair, on the flowers she and Lysa gathered and on the neatness of her brother and the way the household was run. Half of those compliments had more to do with circumstances than with her. Lysa had simply cooed at the man and reminded her sister all that he had said after he was gone.

"Do you think you are to be wedded soon?" Lysa asked, breaking the silence that had settled over them.

"Soon enough, I am sure," Catelyn answered. "Anxious to have your own maiden's cloak replaced?"

"Red and gold would look very well on me," she murmured in a dreamy voice.

The Seven help them all if Lysa took it into her head to pursue Jaime Lannister. Only too late did Catelyn realise the potential danger she had exposed them to with her encouraging comments. She laughed softly at the elation her sister exhibited. What a happy bride she might make someday to a fortunate lord. Even Jaime Lannister should be happy to hold her attention.

"Is there no other man you would wed but the Lannister heir?" Catelyn goaded the younger girl with an impish grin.

Lysa blushed and stammered and tried to hide behind her hands. "I should like any man so long as I love him."

Catelyn knew well enough what her sister was not telling her. She had seen the looks Lysa sneaked to Petyr Baelish, their father's ward, whenever she thought no one was looking. It was a fact that Lysa was not at all subtle. A bit younger than herself, Petyr was one of Catelyn's truest friends. He was always around when she or her sister needed his help and he had made it a sort of personal missions to make sure they were safe and sound. Petyr was a sweet boy, a kind boy, the sort of boy Lysa ought to wed some day.

Petyr would have been the perfect match for either sister had he not been of a house so much beneath them. It was a true pity, for he was smart and gallant. But that was the situation. Catelyn was glad to have him as her friend nonetheless and, who knew, perhaps father might make an exception for Lysa and allow her to take Petyr to be her husband.

The door opened suddenly and a happy, yet exceedingly dusty, Edmure burst in, Petry only a step behind. Lysa shrieked in indignation as Edmure jumped in her lap. The boy laughed and climbed off, eyes turning to Catelyn.

"Do not even attempt it," the eldest sister warned. Edmure pouted and gave Lysa an apologetic look, which only earned him a scowl and a rebuke. Catelyn watched the unfolding scene with growing amusement. "There now, Lysa, go and change your gown and Edmure shall give you his apology after you come back." Grumbling, Lysa hurried past Petyr, and Catelyn gave her little brother a hard stare. "And you, my little lordling, shall go straight to your room and have the Septa give you a good scrub and fresh clothing." Her brother does not offer any resistance despite the look of pure horror on his face.

"You are always in charge of things, are you not, my lady?" Petyr asked, a compliment hiding somewhere in there. He held in his hands two bouquets of wild flowers. "The little lordling insisted that we pick these for you ladies, although I told him it shan't excuse his appearance."

"I am certain that the one who did the collecting was you, Petyr. Here, give them to me and I shall find some water to put them in." She held her hands out. "They are very pretty. I apologise for Edmure, but you needn't feel obliged to indulge him."

"I mind it not at all, Cat. Your brother is like a sibling to me too," he replied, sitting down next to her. "I enjoy spending time with you."

His familiarity did not bother her, as Petyr had made himself liked from the very start. Even more so to Edmure. As the only son of Lord Tully he found a shortage of amenable game partners. Before Petyr he had been a lonely, coddled boy, surrounded by two too many sisters and not enough boys his age to get in trouble with. It was good to see him run around and get in all sort of scrapes. It was even better to know that Petyr watched over him.

"Still,it means a lot to me," she confessed.

"I know." He nodded his head and turned to look at the door just in time to see Lysa stepping in, a new dress covering her in a fetching shade of light blue. "Well, at least something good came out of your brother's shenanigans. You look very pretty, Lysa."

"Thank you," she chirruped, her cheeks growing red under the scrutiny of his stare. The dress was very similar to what Catelyn herself was wearing. It complemented their hair rather well. "Now where is that little urchin?"

"There is no need for name calling," Catelyn cut in, knowing that if Lysa got too excited, Edmure was likely to end up in tears. "He is just a child."

"A very spoiled child," Lysa complained, sitting herself as close to Petyr at it was possible without it being improper. "You ought to tell father, Cat."

Yet father would do nothing at all. Lysa knew that, so why she was suggesting that Cat take the problem to their father, she could not possibly fathom. It was not untrue that Edmure was a bit spoiled, but Catelyn rather thought he deserved it. Having to grow up with no mother was hard enough; she did not wish to subject him to other deprivations. Father was unconcerned so long as his son did enough by the maester's lessons and learned to sit a horse properly. And even if she went to father with the story, he was sure to laugh and pet her head while stating that she was making a mountain out of a molehill.

"You should be glad he no longer finds it amusing to throw food around at supper," Petyr tried to lighten the mood. "I am sure he meant you no harm, Lysa. But boys will be boys. Make a concession for him, won't you?" His genial manner seemed to work best with Lysa. Catelyn sent him a thankful look as Lysa's sullen cast transformed in a small smile.

"I suppose that you were equally rambunctious at his age." The second Tully girl gave a full-fledged smile to her collocutors. "Or were you better behaved?"

"Oh, I was much worse. A lady could consider herself lucky if she escaped my clutched with just a stained dress," he laughed merrily. "In fact, I shall show you exactly what I used to do." His lips curved in a predatory smile and before Catelyn could utter a word of protest, Lysa was on the ground caught somewhere between amusement and outrage.

This was not at all proper behaviour, but for the life of her Catelyn could not bring herself to stop them. If only the Septa would deign to take a little longer with the cleansing of her brother. Unfortunately it seemed that luck was not to be had.

"What is the meaning of this?" the woman exclaimed from the doorway. "Young Petyr, you are not supposed to be here. Off with you!"

Catelyn sighed as Lysa picked herself up, brushing tears away from her eyes.

* * *

 

Lyanna gave a sharp start as something brushed against her leg. She swallowed her scream when looking down she saw a familiar black tomcat that the lithe Princess had held in her arms. It was a scrawny thing, and since she'd last seen the cat it had lost half its ear. "Why, gods! Whatever happened to you, beast?" she asked jokingly, bending down to catch the tom about its middle. The cat did not thank her for it. "There now, little monster," she admonished, dropping the devil.

Balerion hissed at her and jumped atop her bed. It walked to her pillows and Lyanna watched on with suspicions. Claws came out swiftly and the creature started scratched at the silk and feathers, tearing it apart. Lyanna threw a small slipper at it, but her aim had been too wide. Feather flew about like fat snowflakes of the purest white. "Balerion!" Lyanna protested at the tom's treatment of the pillow. Balerion ignored her well enough and nestled in the remnants of the cushion. Lyanna sighed. It was no doubt dangerous for her health to try prying her guest away from the leftover of its spoils. She wondered if she should call one of the guards.

Suddenly she was attacked by a vision of one of those knights in their shining armours running about the rooms, bumbling and awkward, in their attempt to catch the cat. She laughed and sat down on the bed. She didn't dare come close to the cat, but she watched with attention as it looked at her. Its golden eyes bore into her; it showed little interest in anything but the bed it had made for itself.

Her leg no longer bothered her as it had before. Lyanna could walk about her rooms as she pleased without pains attacking her and making her crumple. She only wished then trail would take place sooner. The young woman was anxious to defend herself against the accusation brought before her. It would have surely been nothing less than embarrassing to use a cane when walking in the throne room, even worse should someone carry her in. Aye, she was glad that her leg no pained her with every step she took, though she hadn't yet the chance to test it on a longer walk. Her hands too were better – her wrists in particular – yet they sometimes ached. Thin red lines still lingered on her skin.

Looking at the small mirror that had been left for her, Lyanna noticed that even the bruises on her face were less visible. There was some discolouring, or rather a yellow tint near her temple, but the rest of her skin looked soft and unblemished. She could appear before a king like this, and it made no difference really as the King has been her raw and bloodied and he'd made no comment on it, nor caused her to feel disgruntled with too curious looks and pity. He'd worked to have her treated as normal as possible in her circumstances.

Had nothing of this nightmare happened, Lyanna wondered if her father would have brought her to King's Landing anyway. She would have not been tied to Robert. Would the King have waited then to wed her? Lyanna knew that she was young, though a maiden flowered, yet she also knew that maidens younger than her had been wedded. Why, several decades back, a five years old Blackwood maiden had been given to a man six times her age. The marriage, of course, remained unconsumed until the girl first bled on her white linens. The man might have been a Frey, which explained the taste for the young. It didn't matter though. Rhaegar Targaryen would wed her if all went well and Lyanna found herself praying the nights away that nothing would go wrong. Her only hope was that.

It mattered little to her that her father had planned it, for Lyanna did not seek a crown. She wanted the man, not the King. While the King was righteous and regal, the she-wolf wished for the man who had showed her kindness. It was the man that made her heart flutter and her head grow lighter. It was the man she wished to speak to, and less the king.

A few nights past she had had a dream. It was a strange thing that had made her stomach grow tight. Her temperature had risen something frightening and she had woken up in a sweat. Lyanna did not remember what the dream had been, not even tiny bits. Yet, all the same, she had found it difficult to find sleep once more. Something had kept bothering her and no matter how she shifted it would not go away. In the end, sheet tangled about her body. Sleep eluded her and morning found her tired and with a prayer on her lips still. Why should she spend her nights like that, Lyanna couldn't figure out and it bothered her. Yet she hadn't dared ask for fear it would cost her dignity.

Balerion whined for attention, paws slapping against her thigh as the tom crawled in her lap. Lyanna scratched behind its ear. "Your mistress must be wondering where you've run off to. You ought to keep close to her heels." Little Rhaenys must have been horrified when she saw the slashed ear. Lyanna rubbed the edge lightly. "Got in a fight for food, I'd wager."

Cats were cats. They had no honour to speak of, nor goals, nor egos. They were content to sleep away their time and get up for food or attention. An easy life to be sure. Lyanna rather envied the tiny fellow nestled in her lap. He could do as he wished, while she had a thousand and one rules to follow, none of which were likely to bring her happiness sooner rather than later.

"I should give you to the guards," she said a moment later. "The Princess must really be worried at your absence, my fearsome Black Dread."

Holding the cat in her arms, Lyanna stood to her feet and walked unsteadily to the first couple of doors. She pushed one open. Most on the time she was alone in her rooms. There were servants who brought her food and drink, and once or twice a maester would come to give her ointments. Lyanna spoke to none of them. She had no need, nor desire to do so. The she-wolf knew well enough that they would try to pry if she gave them the chance. Only the maester ever exchanged words with her. And even then it was only to ask how she fared and if she had need on anything to dull her pain. Lyanna had to admit he'd done well by her, and she rather liked his round homely face. There was honesty about him. And the gods knew honesty was scarce enough in her life for it to be treasured.

The antechamber was somewhat cooler than her sleeping chamber, and Lyanna could see there was no fire in the hearth. Balerion purred in her arms. She could see the tom's eyes had closed and she breathed lightly. "Fell asleep, have you?" She had spoken quietly so as to not startle the cat. She nestles the beast to her chest in the soft wool of her shawl. She prayed the little devil would not see fit to sharpen its claws on her clothing. That was the last thing she needed.

In the evening there remained only one guard at her door. Lyanna opened the last set and Leyton Leygood turned her way promptly. He was an older knight, standing well over Lyanna's height and with a brawny built. He made an imposing figure that was certain. Ser Leyton had streaks of grey among a heedful of brown curls that farmed a large face with a square chin. Lyanna would not call him handsome, yet he could be charming. It was those blue eyes of his that did it though. The blue was not a deep, Tully blue, but rather a lighter shade, closer to that of a clear sky. He also sported a moustache, which the she-wolf found hilarious for some reason.

"Lady Lyanna!" He looked her up and down. "You should not be out of your chambers."

"I wouldn't need to if this little troublemaker hadn't snuck into my bed." She held the cat out. "I was hoping we could take him back to the Princess." Of course, it was well known that Rhaenys kept the hatful cat as a pet. All servants lived in fear of Balerion, his sneaky ways and sharp claws.

Leygood sighed. "My lady, you are not to wander the halls alone."

"I needn't go alone, Ser. I only ask that you join me on a short trip. We can leave Balerion with one of the Kingsguards at the Princess' door," she pointed out, stepping out of the room fully.

"Or, I could take the cat," Leygood offered with a grin. His had reached for the tom in her arms, but Balerion turned on him, teeth and claws striking at the large hand looming above him. Leygood yelped and pulled his hand back. "Aye, then, 'tis best we go together, else it might be that I flatten him."

The Princess would not enjoy that. Lyanna nodded her agreement and tightened her grip on Balerion just enough so that the cat wouldn't jump out of her arms. Balerion, though, seemed at home in her grasp and returned to purring and nuzzling his head in the wool of her shawl.

It was both strange and exhilarating to be walking down the halls again. Lyanna had missed the motion. While she could complain of nothing, held in her spacious rooms as she was, the young woman had longed to go out on a real walk. She understood the need for security, more than anyone mayhap, as she'd been the one attacked, yet sealed behind closed doors she was likely to loose what grace she possessed.

"Ser, do you know anything about the tourney?" she asked, wondering if they had held it after all. Lyanna would have liked to see it.

"Current circumstances have delayed the event some," the man replied, giving her his arm for support. "I must say, though, that none have raised complaints so far. It is unknown if the King will hold the event after all, but most say he should for there is already the food and the drink gathered."

Of course none had raised complaints. They were far too entertained by her personal tragedy for that. Lyanna soured at the thought. By no means did she wish to be the centre of attention. And yet here they were, all of them, trying to make the best out of an ugly situation. The only consolation was the unexpected luck. She refrained from making a comment though. Leygood had done nothing to deserve her ire, although she might feel entitled to snap at the world. Lyanna understood well enough where she stood.

Distracted by her grimmer thoughts by a dull ache, the she-wolf realised her leg was not quite as well she thought it might be. There was no spear of pain shooting through her, but she could feel the muscles burning – and she was only walking. Well, the Valyrian Empire did not rise in one day, she told herself. It was not that she hadn't known recuperating would take time, Lyanna was just suffering from a mild case of impatience. Unhelpful as that was, it was still a burden she would try to bear with dignity.

"Are you feeling well, my lady?" Leygood asked, halting their progress. "You look pale."

"I am well," Lyanna assured him. But she wasn't feeling quite right truth be told. "If we could just stand here awhile." She took a deep breath.

Leygood helped her to the wall and Lyanna leaned back into it. Balerion purred and rubbed against her. That felt nice. There was a certain calming effect to having a pet to caress.

"If my lady wishes to return, I shall take the cat," the knight offered, this time his mien serious. "Begging your pardon, my lady, but you shouldn't force yourself just now."

"I am fine, Ser. Just a bit overwhelmed." She tried for a smile, but couldn't rightly tell if she did a good job or not. She would ask for some milk of the poppy or dreamwine. "We should go on now."

"As my lady commands," Leygood said in an agreeable manner, lending her his arm once more.

* * *

 

Eddard rode through the gates, his gelding's hooves beating against the cracked earth. The other riders followed close behind. Dust rose in the air in their wake. The streets were blessedly empty, as he suspected they would be. People generally did not raise this early unless their need was great. Dawn had not quite broken yet, but the pinkish light of morning was visible. It bled into the darker tones of night's remnants, indigos, violets and blacks. It was a beautiful sight. Or it would have been had Ned deigned to take notice of it. As it was, he was too busy tormenting his horse with a rapid pace.

Both beasts and men were tired. Ned was not certain why he hurried as he did. It was not likely that his sister had suffered any other injuries, and yet he could not linger at the Eyrie any longer. Jon Arryn had tried staying his mad dash for the Capitol. The only thing Ned knew was that a man he had trusted – a man in whom he had placed his faith, a man who had been more a brother than a friend – that very man had harmed his sister. Hadn't he told her that Robert would bring her happiness? For half a heartbeat Ned thought he might be sick. He had all but promised his sister safety, and what she had was humiliation and pain. By the old gods and the new!

"Easy, easy," he murmured, caressing the gelding's neck as his speed slowed. "Easy now." He could see the Red Keep up on Aegon's Hill. From the distance, the red was deep as blood. The colour of his sister's blood, Ned thought with a grimace. The colour of Lyanna's blood as it had dripped onto the ground. The Others take Robert. The gelding shook its head and slowed even more.

Ned did not rightly know what his father planned to do. It had been part of Lord Stark's plan to make advantageous allegiances with the South. Lyanna had been just a marble. Brandon was supposed to wed Catelyn Tully, and Eddard himself was to take the younger Tully sister if his father had his way. Benjen would claim a maid from the North to appease father's bannermen. It was a cleverly crafted plan, if anything pleasant could be said of such machinations. Even that praise was dubious at best and not given with a light heart.

Robert had wanted Lyanna, and Ned was partly responsible for that. He and Robert had served together at Lord Arryn's home. Being of the same age, they were forced in each other's company much of the time, and in the end it became a habit. After a time he spoke to Robert of his sister. It had been just words, for he knew that his friend had a sort of contract with another lady. Yet it seemed to have planted some desire for Lyanna in Robert's mind.

To Ned, Lyanna was the sweetest girl, though he has pulled on her plaits when they were small and she had bit his arm in retaliation. To Robert the girl was already half-woman and very soon his. Before long he'd started asking Ned a thousand questions about her. There was nothing he did not want to know, and he found charming even the tales of her climbing trees and chasing squirrels. If Ned had found it strange, he'd failed to say anything of it then.

Robert had written to Rickard Stark at some point, Ned knew not when, and a deal had been struck between them. Ned found out about it only when they were already en route to Winterfell. Lyanna was one-and-ten at that time. She'd been little more than a child, not even having the slightest suggestion of woman about her chest and hips. Those who had known Lyarra Stark were sure the girl took after her mother in body. Ned did not remember his mother very well, but he could still picture her slender form in the door of his bedchamber. Lyanna looked much like her to be sure; they had the same hair and face, but not the same eyes. Nay, mother's eyes had been blue. Lyanna had their father's eyes, dark and stormy.

The Quiet Wolf wondered what mother would have made of their father's actions. Lyarra had loved all her children, that he knew. Yet Lyarra had been a hard woman. Aye, for all the affection she held for her pups, Lyarra – a true Northerner woman to her bones – would do what she must to preserve the good name of her house. Then again, mother had been a Stark even before wedding their father. The wolves bred within their own house if it could be helped.

"Just a little longer," Ned whispered to the wind and darkness, thinking about Lyanna. He wondered if her wounds gave her trouble. "Wait for me, little sister." He would protect her, Ned swore to himself. He would do what he should have done in the first place. Lyanna had begged for his aid and he'd turned her away. His mistake had been grave and the price had been paid in blood by an innocent. But no more. Nay, Lyanna would be well protected if he had to sleep beside her bed with a sword in his hand and an eye perpetually open. If only Benjen were old enough to lend a hand.

Finally he reached the Red Keep's gates. The guards only looked at his banner before they pulled the gates open and allowed him entrance. His host came behind him, no doubt each of them relieved to have a bed to sleep in and food to feast upon after their long ride. Ned himself would not protest to a cup of wine and some meat. He dismounted and watched a man run towards them. It was one of the stable boys who had come to guide them and their horses to the stables.

"Come with me, my lord, sers," the boy called, taking two pairs of reins in his hands.

They had been expected. Ned was startled with the realisation, though not deeply unsettled. His father must have expected his actions to match the commands given, and made the fitting preparations. Ned did not stay to see to his horse, he just gave of the boy three copper coins to do that.

What he wanted was to take two steps at a time and find his sister wherever she was. He imagined her a scared, little thing, quivering under her coverlet as she'd done whenever night terrors found her in her bed. Benjen had been a bedmate to her for a time, and they comforted one another as they could, yet many times had they crawled into Ned's own bed, one on each side of him.

No doubt, his sister was in the Maidenvault. It was a good choice. It was a safe choice. Lyanna would suffer no harm there. He could not barge in the Maidenvault, no matter how much he wished to do so. Nay, it was his father he would see first.

"Eddard!" the familiar voice of his father called. "You are arrived." Rickard Stark came out of the shadow, and Ned took the time to observed him. Since last he'd seen the Lord of Winterfell, the man seemed to have aged a decade at least. The silver in his hair had turned white, and his eyes no longer shone. "Come, some." The father held his arms open.

Feeling much like a child, Ned walked to him on wooden feet. He embraced his father and felt a knot settle in his throat. "Father, I am come," he replied in kind. "I trust all is well."

"As well as we can expect," Rickard offered gently. "Come, have wine and meat with me," he invited.

Suddenly the wine and meat did not sound quite so pleasant. "My lord father, what about my sister?"

Rickard gave him a hard stare. "We shall talk of your sister, aye, and your brother too." He turned and walked further away.

Ned had little choice but to follow. His men would be cared for well enough, he was certain. His father settled on a brisk pace, though he'd seemed made of stone that one instant in the yard. And what meant he that they would speak of his brother. It could not be Benjen, he knew, for Benjen was as much a follower of rules as he. That only left Brandon. If it involved Brandon, then Ned half feared the news. Brandon had never known when to exercise caution and he was not in the habit of following orders. The slightest chance of mischief would attract his brother and he would not rest until he'd gotten himself in some sort of mischief. Ned could only hope it was not the kind that would end up killing him. They already had too much to worry over. Ned cursed softly.

He was made to sit in front of the heart as servants brought in food and drink. Silence enveloped them until they were alone. It seemed his father had little trust. Ned inclined towards the same attitude.

"My sister," he started again, this time his voice edged with steel. "I want to know how Lyanna is."

"Well enough, Rickard answered. "Her wounds are healing nicely, at least that is what the maesters tell me. Last I saw her she was about ready to jump out of bed."

"And Robert?" Had they caught him yet? Ned thought not. He hadn't seen any signs of it, a head mounted on the walls or a man hanged.

"Baratheon is still at large. His brothers, of course, are here, and the eldest has become Lord of Storm's End in name." He would not be given freedom until after the trial, Eddard knew. "I have another reason for calling you here. Your sister, you know, must undergo an examination. I want you to add your word to hers. Both of Robert's brothers are yet young. Who knows what their brother might have said to them. They will no doubt think Lyanna would have been willing to bed their brother."

Add his word to Lyanna's. "I was not there, father. For all I know, Lya might have changed her mind. Or that is nearest to what these lord and ladies will think. And more to the point you gave her away."

"So I did," the older man grunted. "And I take her back now. It was a mistake. And I am sorry to have caused her pain. She is mine too, Eddard. She is my girl, my only daughter." By which the man meant to say he was fond of her, Ned though.

"And she is my sister. Yet I did nothing for her. Blood counts for little, doesn't it?" Ned crossed his arms over his chest. "She will have anything she needs of me, though it comes late." Aye, there was little he could do to help his sister, save give those vows his father asked him for.

"Then I can ask no more of you, my son. You are dutiful and it is more than enough." Rickard stood and poured himself another cup of wine.

Duty. Ned wondered at the word. It felt foreign. Duty. How cold a word. "Aye," he replied absently. His duty, his sister's duty and the duty of their brothers. Their father's duty. It all revolved around that, didn't it? "And Brandon? What of him?"

"Brandon does as he's always done," Rickard answered. "My heir seems to have vanished with that Ryswell girl he's been so enamoured with as of late." His brother loved swift and often. One day he swore he loved a fair maiden of the mountains and the next he loved some lady of the marshes. "Her father wants her back."

"If she is with Brandon, then he'd best pray she returns without a natural child to show for the love my brother has for her." Brandon was no stranger, after all, to natural children. They were not many for most women knew how to protect themselves against fatherless children.

Rickard looked ready to groan at that. "That is my worry exactly, Eddard." And for that there was no cure.

* * *

 

The water ran hot against her skin, reddening the flesh. Steam rose from the surface to spread about the room. Lyanna submitted herself to the care of the serving girl who scrubbed her skin and washed her hair.

In Winterfell the walls of her home ran warm with the water of hot springs. A sense of sadness swept over her. She would never go home. If the King had his way she would become the Queen. A queen's place was by her king. And Lyanna intended to do well by the man if he did wed her. The truth remained; she would not return to her girlhood safe heaven. No warm walls for her. She would have a crown instead. A crown of gold would be set of her head, a crown in the image of that the King wore. A slim band of gold set with seven different stones. It was the same crown the first Jaehaerys had worn – Jaehaerys the Wise he was remembered. Did the King hope for that wisdom to be passed onto him, Lyanna wondered as the cloths scraped against her skin and quick fingers washed her hair with tugs and pulls. Lyanna grimaced at the sting.

The sun spilled through the open doors of the balcony, but it did not enter further enough to disperse the shadows. Her eyes sought the place where light and shadow met, mingling together. She'd dreamt of blood before the sun's first rays touched the sky.

Stepping out of the bath, Lyanna was covered in clean linens, patted and rubbed dry. Her hair was wrung, combed and dried as well. They did not place gold or silver in her tresses, nor dressed her in the colours of her lord husband. Instead she was given a dress of light blue colour. Blue for purity, she reflected with a small smile.

The Septas came in hours later, their stern faces reminding Lyanna of cold statues. One of them was relatively young. Lyanna even thought she might be of an age with her, but no. Though she stood only an inch or so taller than her, the Septa's face was older and her bosom larger, as were her hips. Her body was that of a woman as well inside her robes. Would they treat her kindly? The Seven were not her gods. But she still prayed, for the strength they held in the South, that these gods would set her free. The other Septas were well ahead of her in years and their eyes were empty and incredibly light, a sort of film covering them.

They'd brought a horn with them. Lyanna had heard some tales of magical horns. Supposedly only a chaste woman could drink from it without turning the pure water into poisonous blood. A pitcher was held by another Septa. How could a woman know if the water itself hadn't been poisoned? Lyanna held her tongue, though she might have said something as trust ran thin insider her veins. Besides a horn could only prove that her balance was acceptable, not if a man had touched her or not.

Of course it was not her maidenhead they would be concerned for. Nor would it matter if Robert had indeed bedded her, not truly. It was his seed inside of her they feared. Rhaegar had given her the same impression and she did understand the reasoning. Should he wed her as she was and a child was upon her, he would be in difficulty to name the babe not his own. No man would freely admit to his wife giving him horns.

"Are you Lyanna of House Stark, daughter to the Warden of the North?" the seemingly eldest of them asked in a tremulous voice. Her face was wizened and gaunt, her frame tall but slightly stooped due to her advanced age.

"I am she," Lyanna answered without hesitation. She fought the urge to worry her hands. It would do no good. All she had to do was tell the truth, which was an easy enough task.

"How many years do you have, child?" another asked in such a thin voice that Lyanna found her ears tingled with it. This one was ancient as well, for all she stood straighter than the other.

"I am three-and-ten," came her answer half a heartbeat later. The truth was comfortable, like an old glove that fit her hand perfatly.

"Are you flowered yet, my lady?" the third of them questioned. Her eyes caught Lyanna's attention. They were wide and blue of colour and the light caught in them. Pretty eyes. But her voice held none of that prettiness.

"That I am, good Septa." It had been come time. In fact she was sure that soon enough she would bleed again. She waited for another question to be posed.

The youngest of them spoke then. "Has your marriage been consummated? You say nay, but the servant girl you had in Lord Baratheon's house sings a different song. She says you have taken to bed with him even as soon as your first day of bleeding was over." Lyanna thought their speech might have been rehearsed. Her eyes narrowed at the question though.

Lyanna shook her head. "If that is her word then she lies. My lord husband did not know of my flowering. And if he found out it was not from me. I have tried my best to protect my virtue." Come to think of it, Alys might have told Robert about her moon's blood coming. It would certainly explain his anger and his hurry to depart. Her father must have approached him and suggested that he let go of his wife, Robert would have refused and then took off and would have taken her with him.

"Then you should not have any difficulty with our task, my lady," the one standing in the middle spoke. Her sister in faith filled the drinking horn with something that Lyanna only now realised was not water. The colour was darker, yellowish, a bit like tea. The Septa confirmed her suspicion a moment later. "We have made for you a drink of moon tea, my lady."

"I thought you were to examine my maidenhead," the young woman said softly as she wrapped her hands around the large horn.

"A young lady who rides is likely to have her maidenhead ruptured by such activities. And which lady does not ride?" another voiced with her pale face shining in the light. "It would be fruitless to search for the maidenhead, my lady. Instead have this drink and your moon's blood shall be upon you by the morrow."

She was in no danger. Unless Robert had a way of giving women his seed with only lecherous looks, of course. Though Lyanna was sure she would have known by now if she was with child had Robert actually forced himself upon her. She drank deep from the horn the first time. And deeper still on the second. The third swallow almost chocked her. They'd added too much honey. Lyanna wrinkled her nose and continued to gulp at the antidote. The liquid settled in the pit of her stomach, warm. The sweet taste of it lingered still even after the handed the horn back to the wrinkled hands of the Septa closest to her.

"There shan't be much blood," the same Septa said after a moment of silence. "Keep some cloth under your skirts and if you feel queasy take some sweet water." The others gave her nods and grim faces. "You may choose which of us remains with you until the morrow."

"Then I wish you would keep me company," Lyanna replied easily. Her decision was met with silent answers. She had chosen not the youngest, not the oldest, and certainly not the one with the sweetest of voices.

Lyanna shared her food and some stories with the Septa and was surprised to find out that the wizened woman had been a girl unflowered when she had been given to the Faith. "I was born into House Marbrand and my two sisters were given husbands, my brother a wife. Instead I was given to the Septas."

"Did you never wish for a different life?" she asked as they sat together in the orange light of the falling sun. The life of a Septa was lonely.

The woman laughed. "I am what I am, my lady. There is little point in wishing something else. Just as you yourself are what you are, my lady. Does it serve to wish you'd been born a man or that you hadn't been married to your Storm lord?"

Of course not. Lyanna nodded solemnly. "Nay, I suppose I cannot help what I am. But I never wished to be a man, truth be told. When I was little it seemed the greatest thing to me that I would one day be a great lady like my mother, though I admit I found some pleasure in sparring with my youngest brother in the godswood."

"You are proficient with a sword, my lady?" There was no reproach in her voice though, so Lyanna was not put out of ease.

"I know only a bit. But I was not built for combat for all I would fell my brother. He was younger and shorter than me until a year ago. I am sure he is now above me in height. I am a very good rider." If only she could have ridden away from Robert to the ends of the earth.

"And yet you claim that being a lady would have pleased you." The Septa gave her an inquisitive look. "Is the Lord of Storm's End not grand enough?"

"He claimed to love me," Lyanna confessed, her face going pale. "But he barely knew me and I did not like what I knew of him. Robert could be gallant, I grant you that, but that was only until he would worm his way between a woman's legs." She sniffed indignantly. "Still, I did not dislike him for that. There are many men who take paramour and father children on them. But Robert loses any need for a woman after he puts a babe in her belly. I would not delude myself that I was different."

"There is more." It hadn't been a question. Lyanna blinked slowly at the woman. "What else made you reluctant to give your heart to him?"

"The very fact that he demanded my heart. The night of our wedding he offered me wine. I rarely take wine, and only watered besides." Her eyes glazed over in remembrance. "Tis' not the fact that he gave me drink, though. When I refused him he gave me such a dark look that I thought he might strangle me then and there."

"A violent soul," the Septa observed. "Most men are so. They have a taste for blood those of them that are the best fighters. Though, the same might be said about some woman."

Women were better at concealing their desire for violence. "I do not desire to fight. I am not of the mind that a marriage is a competition between wife and husband to see which had the most power between them. But I want someone who will not treat me as an object. Is that too much to ask for?"

"Not at all. You shall be well served by your annulment." The Septa soon told her it was time to lie down and sleep.

Lyanna was happy enough for that; her stomach had started to ache. The linen pad was placed between her legs gingerly and she wondered if it wouldn't slip during the night. But she wore her smallclothes under and so that would be difficult.

Under the blankets it was warm and snug and the heat helped with her discomfort. It was easy to fall asleep and she wasn't even bothered by the additional weight and the strangeness of another human body next to hers.

The moon shone high in the sky, its silvery light bathing everything but a few corners which not even those long rays could reach. Dreams found her soon. Lyanna would not remember those dreams ever. She would not waste time wondering how others remembered their nightly visions. Lyanna heard songs.

* * *

 

Tywin's lips curled in dismay as he crossed paths with Rickard Stark. The man had a daughter about Cersei's age. A wisp of a girl to be sure, comely and in the middle of an annulment. The King had taken a disturbing interest in her. Tywin hadn't seen this Lyanna Stark, but he had heard that the King paid her visits and he was partial to her. A maid of three-and-ten, if indeed she was any maid at all, had charmed the wits out of Rhaegar Targaryen. It was a feat his Cersei had been trying to accomplish for the past couple of years.

It seemed to work not at all. No matter how his daughter smiled and cajoled and tempted the man, the King repaid her with a gentle look of reprimand. Cersei was the most beautiful maiden in all the Seven Kingdoms. Certainly fairer than the late wife of the King. Elia Martell had been older and taller than her husband when they wed. She was of Dorne, and though her looks had been exotic, they were not beautiful. Striking, for sure, but not stunning. Dark hair and dark eyes with sun browned skin. Her frame had been thin, her chest flat and her hips narrow. She was unremarkable at best and downright unappealing. Her death had been the perfect solution to Tywin's dilemma about what he would do with Cersei. The King was free. He should have jumped at the chance to have the beautiful Lannister maiden for his queen. Yet Rhaegar refused.

His father had refused as well, Tywin remembered. Aerys Targaryen had been a boyhood friend of Tywin's. They had grown up together and he was of the few who remained with Aerys throughout the years. Their first real quarrel had been over Joanna Lannister. Aerys had wanted her and he had implored King Jaehaerys to allow him to wed her. The King had refused and instead given him his sister, Rhaella. Aerys hadn't been pleased, yet he'd done as was required of him and took his sister to wife – to disastrous ends, if the rumours were to be trusted. The Queen-mother was safely away on Dragonstone with the King's brother. She had been well pleased when her husband fell ill and took to his bed. He was soon dead and set afire.

The second quarrel was over their children. Tywin had suggested a match between Aerys' son and his own daughter. Aerys had refused him without giving the matter a moment of thought. Cersei had been a child back then, but it was already clear that she would grow up to be a beautiful woman. Aerys had remained unmoved. He would not wed his son to Tywin's daughter. By way of reply he'd brought that Dornish woman and foisted her upon his son. Tywin had almost refused to attend the wedding.

"My Lord Hand," Lord Stark said by way of greeting. His eyes were cold and freezing, though amusement shone in them. His lips curved in a smile, a mocking thing meant to rile him. Tywin ignored it.

"Lord Stark," he offered just as coolly. "How fares your daughter?" He almost hesitated. The King was interested in her. Tywin knew just the thing to dampen the newfangled ardour that seemed to burn in the man's chest.

"She is well enough," Rickard Stark replied curtly, suspiciously. Tywin was not surprised. "If it please you, my Lord Hand, I must make haste. There are matters I must attend to."

"About that unruly son of yours, no doubt," Tywin said as a parting shot. Rickard Stark gave him no answer.

But it was too late anyway. Tywin knew Stark's aim. He would not suffer another defeat or slight. If he had to poison each and every highborn girl in the Seven Kingdoms, he would do it. Cersei was born to be queen. She would have no less than was her due. Arrangements had already been made. If only he could find competent people. Rickard Stark disappeared down the hall, leaving the King's Hand alone with the shadows.

He was not left long in his solace. Gregor Clegane lumbered towards him. He was a mountain of a man, fierce and grim. Gregor Clegane was a dog. What his master ordered, he would do. If Tywin told him to barge into Lyanna Stark's rooms and slit her throat where she stood, he would do so. But Tywin was not cruel if cruelty was not needed.

"Come," Tywin bade him. Clegane followed into a room. "Two men shall be waiting by the gates as I have told you. You are not to hurt the girl. Not a bruise, not a broken hair stand. Make sure she does not yell out. We must alert no one of this." It was Baratheon's right to have his wife. "Gag her if you have to. And tie her if you must."

Cersei had come to him with her sorrowful song. She had it from some lady or another that the King visited the Stark girl twice a day and that he would spend long hours in her company. His daughter's rage had fuelled his when he heard that. The King had his secrets, Tywin knew. His father had been easier to read and easier to manipulate too. One of Joanna's smile would have been enough to sway the man had Tywin allowed his wife anywhere near Aerys Targaryen. He hadn't. His son was a different matter altogether. Rhaegar Targaryen was less prone to fits of anger than his father had. He was a calmer sort, seemingly imperturbable. The current King was pleased to keep Tywin at a distance where personal matters were concerned. But he was still a man. And men had weaknesses. Tywin needed only to find that weakness and his would be the eventual victory.

Tywin turned to face the window as Celgane left to do his master's bidding like a good dog.

Jaime came next. He entered. "Father, you have summoned me." The boy was growing fast. It was time to do something about him as well. Cersei would have Rhaegar. Jaime would need someone just as grand.

The Stark girl was out of question. He had promised her to Baratheon as it was. The Storm Lord could take her and make off with her as he would. By rights, Lyanna belonged to him. Perhaps a Tully girl. The younger one, to be sure. The first was already promised to some lord or another. "It is time we found you a bride, my son. Have you any thought of the matter?"

Jaime looked at him with wide eyes, green as his, as Joanna's had been. "I do not-" That was enough to earn his son a glare. "I have given it no thought."

"Casterly Rock needs an heir. House Lannister needs an heir." Tywin's hand thumped the windowsill. His son's face spoke of fear and anger. "You are no longer a child. It is time you thought of your duties. Jaime, you are my son!"

"I am still young," he offered in weak protest. "There is time enough for weddings and heirs."

Tywin shook his head. His children seemed bent on ruining the prestige of their House. Had Joanna lived, she would have known how to make their children see the truth. "Do not mistake me, Jaime. You shall be married if I have to drag you to the altar myself. I am giving you a choice. A Tully girl. Or perhaps another. You may have this choice provided that she is suitable."

If only he'd known what his son was thinking, Tywin would have likely chocked on his breath. Jaime wanted no Tully girl, nor any other for that matter. He wanted a woman that could never be his. He wanted his own sister. "A Tully girl will do just as well as any other," Jaime grudgingly accepted. He could see no way out of the situation. "When am I to bed the Trout's daughter, father? May I say my goodbyes or am I to ride away at this very moment."

"Do not be insolent," Tywin cut him. "You shall wed when I tell you to." He dismissed his son with a wave of his hand. It was enough to make his head ache the way his son put himself in the way of his plans.

The Tullys were a good match. There was no royal blood running through their veins, but they were an old house, they were rich as well. Though House Lannister had no need of money, it could not hurt to receive a fat dowry with that girl they would put into his son's bed. Tywin needed allies in court. He wondered if Clegane had taken care of matters by now. The hour would grow late soon. Very soon.

In the silence Tywin fell to wondering about the Baratheon lord. Robert was a fool. He was sure he was in loved with the Stark girl, a child really. Perhaps he ought to have told Clegane to take care of the Storm Lord and his little bride. It was best if the King never found a way to come to the girl's rescue. Rhaegar was not his father's son; he could not ignore a woman's pain. The fact was proven when he speedily agreed to have his mother out of the Red Keep when she complained about the bad memories that assaulted her whenever she walked the halls as the night fell.

The Targaryen were mad, most of them. Not every one of them had a violent madness to them, but mad all the same. It ran in their blood. Tywin wondered if it came with loosing their dragons. It could not be that. The Targaryen had been mad even before that. Valyrian blood. Dragon blood. It all came down to blood, Tywin thought with a grimace.

Aerys had been proud of his son, as proud as Tywin was of his own. He used to say that the Valyrian blood ran strong through the veins of his firstborn. But it was his second son that was more like him. Viserys Targaryen was prone to fits and tears and anger. Of course it would have been much easier to sway Viserys. Cersei could have surely charmed him. But Viserys was too young to wed. And Rhaella would not have welcomed anyone trying to part her from her babe. She forever saw him as a babe cradled in her arms.

Rhaella Targaryen was as mad as her brother had been. Her madness was born by long hours spent in the company of Aerys. Tywin was sure. Aerys had been unhappy in his marriage and his wife had had to suffer through every night with him some said. Rhaella hadn't always been mad, just sad. Sadness was a part of her just as smili8ng had been part of Joanna. The Sun had been the Lannister maid with rays of sunshine in her hair. The moon was Rhaella, shinning with a lesser light. There was a sweet sadness to her once upon a time, and it turned into bitterness and despair.

Rhaegar had saved his mother in a fashion. Yet Tywin could not seem to find a way to make the King notice his daughter. He had offered Cersei a large dowry and had served the new King loyally. Cersei had been placed in his path and close at hand. Perhaps he thought Cersei too young. Or mayhap he was truly enamoured with the Stark girl. Whatever the case may be, Lyanna Stark would remain only a memory to the King. Cersei would be his only option and he would have her and father children on her, children with golden hair and violet eyes.

He would be the grandfather of the next king, Tywin thought with satisfaction. A little lion for the Iron Throne. That ought to take the madness out of him. A sane king. No one could possibly ask for more. If they had a daughter, Tywin would insist they name her Joanna. In his mind she had golden blonde hair and the brightest green eyes he had ever seen.

* * *

 

Brandon looked at her with wide eyes that did not understand. He was a good fighter, stronger than any of his brothers, stronger than most Northmen and faster than those whose strength he could not match. But even he had little hope against a score of men without his sword and with a blade held to his neck. The steel gave his skin a sharp cold kiss, a trail of blood trickled down his neck. His eyes narrowed. "Why?" was the only thing he asked.

Barbrey watched him with pity written all across her face. That only made him angry. He would have understood had she fled in the night. He could have understood that even if she'd taken all the money and her belongings with her. But she hadn't. Instead she called upon her father's men. Why? He'd brought her no harm. "I would have wed you."

"And made a beggar out of me, aye," she replied in a small sad voice. "You have nothing to give me, Brandon Stark." She tied the clasp of his cloak. Even with her mouth in a stern line, she was still the prettiest woman he had ever known.

Not even Catelyn Tully could match her. And Catelyn Tully was a good-looking woman. She was tall and graceful, with flaming hair and the bluest eyes Brandon had ever seen. His own mother had had blue eyes, but hers had been light as ice. Catelyn Tully, by contrast, had a darker shade of blue in her eyes. Though he'd liked her well enough, Brandon had loved Barbrey too much to even seriously consider wedding the Tully girl. He should have thought better on that. His father had been right to pick him a wife himself. His own heart could not be trusted with such a task, it would see. Brandon snarled as he was pushed forward, almost tripping over his own feet.

"I have nothing to give you?" he questioned her incredulously. "I shall be Lord of Winterfell when my father is no more." He wondered if she'd let go of her sanity.

"Not any longer. Your father had chosen to transfer that inheritance upon your younger brother," one of the men spoke. "The boy even followed the Old Wolf to King's Landing. There's no doubt about it." Brandon could hardly believe his ears. His father had spoken of stripping his birthright away, but Brandon hadn't rightly believed it. "You have nothing to give our lady." He was once again pushed forward.

That piece of news gave him pause. His father had warned him in truth. Rickard Stark was not a man to make empty threats. Brandon had learned that much a long time ago when he had been only a child, barely about of his mother's arms. He had been five or six when out of sheer curiosity he'd snuck inside the stables, climbed atop his father's best horse and somehow spooked the beast into setting off. Brandon had almost fallen off, but he'd grabbed the horse's mane and held on. He'd never felt anything like that before or after – almost like flying. His father hadn't been quite as excited about it when they found Brandon in a pile of snow. The horse had thrown him off and his leg had needed splinters, but he pulled through for all that.

Alas his father told him that if he ever got anywhere near the horse he would get himself such a punishment as he'd never received before. Brandon had thought on that until the evening meal, after which he'd promptly crept back into the stables. His mother had caught him though. Brandon thought himself safe enough, but when she did not take him back to his chambers, a fear stole into him. Lyarra Stark had been a gentle woman, not given to taking a switch to her children for disobeying her. Rickard had been different. Brandon received from his father a good spanking that night, which cured him of any desire to visit the stables for the next few weeks.

Lyanna was the only one who ever got away with any mischief, on account of being the sweet, seemingly innocent and the only girl. Of course, if there was any trouble to be had, Lyanna was sure to find it. Brandon was always happy to help, Ned would keep watch and Benjen would toddle after them wanting to be just like his older siblings. But when it came time to face the music, he, Ned and Benjen received the brunt of it. Lyanna usually got away with a scolding; Brandon put that on account of her making a properly contrite face.

Brandon bit his tongue so hard that he could feel the blood in his mouth, its metallic tang almost making him gag. What was he going to do is father took Winterfell away from him? He had been ready to abandon the keep for Barbrey. But it seemed she would not have him without his birthright. Something like dread filled him them. His father had predicted that also. He sighed.

Surely Ned would not accept Winterfell. His brother was a good person and a dutiful son, but he also loved his siblings. Brandon knew he could count on Ned, and in any other situation it would have been enough. But not when it came to lands, it seemed. Doubt crept upon him. Ned was a second son, perhaps he resented that. Had he been born first he would have been Lord of Winterfell, and a better one than Brandon could ever hope to be. Ned had the head and temper for it. Brandon not so much.

He could return. The realisation lifted his spirits for half a heartbeat. Then it all came crashing down. He would not run back to his father with his tail between his legs. He would not give him that satisfaction. Rickard would expect him to beg for forgiveness. Brandon could not give him that. He would not give him that. Barbery might be a poisonous snake, but he would not offer his father the chance to retaliate against House Ryswell. Brandon could not hurt her. What a man he was! Even angered he could not lift a hand to her.

She was so close. He needed only to escape the watchful eyes of the Ryswell men and he could throttle her. Brandon gave her a sour look. Perhaps he ought to crush the snake's head. He should have taken her when he had the chance. Would she dare refuse him with a child inside of her? She would've had to wed him then even if he'd been poor and dirty. He scowled. How could he have been so deceived in her?

Suddenly gleaming steel flew past his head and sunk into one of his captors' skull. The sound of flesh ripping apart and bone crumbling and splitting assaulted his ears. The steel hissed against his skin, leaving behind a thin red cut. It was not deep, barely even there. Brandon ignored the sting and made for the other man at arm, knocking him to the ground. A woman's shriek tore through the roar of his blood pumping through his veins. Brandon paid it no mind; he was too busy punching his fists into his opponent's face. A bludgeon would have been even better, but he would take what he could get. Blood spurted from the man's broken lip. His nose was next. Brandon set upon his savagely. He might have even killed him had he not been stopped.

Strong arms pulled him back. Brandon fought their hold. He tore at the arms and soon others joined them, thick fingers curling around him, pulling him to a standstill. Bloodlust won him over for a few moments and he could see nothing but red before his eyes. Those who restrained him tightened their hold to his despair.

"Enough!" a gruff voice cried and he was turned around to face a familiar man. "You may be a lordling, but that ain't be of much help if you kill these men."

"Yoren," Brandon said by way of greeting. "What are you doing here?" He was still dazed and his tongue felt thick and swollen. It was like he couldn't even think.

"Making my way back to the Wall," was the reply he received. Yoren and his brothers released him. "What are you doing here, would be a more relevant question." Yoren's dark eyes burned into his, that crooked and gnarled body of his strong despite is deformities, Brandon realised belatedly.

Two of Yoren's men had caught Barbrey between them. She was sobbing, loud and heavy. Brandon had half a mind to tell her to shut up. He wouldn't ever be able to think with all the noise she made. Tears rolled down her rosy cheeks when he chanced a glance upon her. The dress she was wearing had been torn at the lower edge and mud stained the upper folds of her skirts. Had she tried to fight too? The thought almost made him smile. She was a tall woman and robust besides, but even so, she wouldn't be much good in a fight.

"I don't know," he answered still looking at the woman. "I honestly do not know, Yoren." She wouldn't be much use in a fight indeed. Barbrey was far too scared, she didn't even struggle. "Let the woman go." Surprisingly enough, they complied. Barbrey fell to her knees, mud staining her dress anew. She made for a pitiful sight. Brandon was not moved in the least. "Where are you coming from?"

"I rode to King's Landing with your father, boy." Yoren's face was sombre. He had to know what had happened in that case. It was better for all involved. "You ought to have known that."

"Has my father named Ned his heir?" Brandon demanded to know. He ought to have known that too, but he didn't.

"Might be," the man returned. "These affairs are no concern of mine, young Brandon Stark. If your father had any reason for which he might name your brother his heir, I suppose he had done so."

"I have to reach King's Landing." He needed a horse, and something to arm himself with. He looked at the bloody man on the ground, then at Barbrey. "I cannot leave the lady with you and your men." They would tear her apart, so many lonely men on a long journey North. And alone she wouldn't last out there. Brandon did not need her blood on his hands.

"I am certain that is wise," Yoren remarked drily.

Brandon walked to where she was and hauled her to her feet. The horses hadn't run, thank the gods. "We shall be on our way then. My gratitude for the rescue, Yoren." The man merely nodded and proceeded to watch as Brandon climbed atop a horse then had Barbrey climbing after him.

It would be a long journey and not at all comfortable for them or the horse, but he couldn't trust her on her own beast. Unless, of course, he had the reins. However he did take the other horse too. Perhaps if she would prove amenable he could at some point allow her to climb atop her own horse and ride. But at the moment he didn't even trust her as far as he could throw her.

"Brandon, please," she tried to speak, her voice shaky. On any other occasion her fear might have softened him. Not now though. He refused to reply. Let her beg. "Brandon, I never meant to cause you injury. You must believe me." She was crying once more, her voice gave her away.

"Is that so?" he mocked her as she wrapped her arms around him to keep from falling. "What injuries do you refer to, my lady. My neck or others wounds?" The scratch he spoke of did not bother him. It had even stopped tricking blood. Most likely it would leave a thin line of decoloured skin to remind him of his folly.

"Please," she tried again, her tears chocking her. "It was father's plan. He wanted the heir of Winterfell as his good-son. Your father refused the match when father suggested it. So he thought that mayhap I could sway you."

And swayed him she had. She'd swayed him right out of his inheritance and birthright. How foolish he had been. Brandon marvelled at it. "You should be proud of yourself then, my lady, and so should your father. I commend you on your technique, but you will understand why I shan't prolong out acquaintance after I've delivered you back to your father, or the nearest relative I can find. It makes no matter to me which."

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this was a bitch to get up. Hope everyone enjoyed it as much as last time. Hopefully, I do not find myself at the bottom of some ravine before I can post again :))).


	3. VERY IMPORTANT

Hi everyone,

Sol here. So, I’m sure you’ve heard about the new link-tax and copyright reform the EU is looking to introduce into the member states of the union. To those of you who haven’t or are not from the EU, basically this new piece of legislation is looking into regulating all activities dependent on content (be it videos, songs, news articles, books etc). They would do that by monitoring what the users of a platform post and if copyrighted content is determined to be used, it would be considered criminal activity.

The only way it wouldn’t be deemed criminal activity is if the users paid a tax (hence why we call it a link-tax).

The vote will be held on the 20th of June and in case the law gets passed, I think it’s obvious I won’t be able to post anymore on any platform (be it this or FF.net or some other site). So what happens is this:  I am starting to archive all of my fics. Those of you who want to request a certain fic can find me [here](https://discord.gg/FZ3ep6r).

Further updates information is: [here](https://discord.gg/FZ3ep6r).

Questions are welcome, but for discretion’s sake, sensitive ones are better posted on discord, or if you must on my e-mail address.

Thank you for your time and sorry to bring you somewhat unpleasant news.

P.S. Every story with more than 20 subs will get a post like this. If you’ve read one, you’ve read them all. I’ll take them down after the 20th.


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